Writing Worlds

I'll Tumble 4 Ya Blogfest

2012-02-09T20:22:00.000-08:00

Thanks Niki for this blogfest!

Blogfests really helped me get this blog off the ground, and now that life has been dousing me in unpleasantness, I'm hoping I can find more of these to brighten my day! I look forward to reading everyone else's posts.

So who was I crushing on in the 80's? I was too young :( I turned 7 in '90...but what was going on from '85-'87 was my parents' marriage falling apart, until it met with divorce, my mom took me and my baby brother to California and here's where we grew up. Soon after, my mom and step-dad met and he brought music into our lives.

My dad--(who's really my step dad)--is an amateur musician and filmaker. He introduced us to everything from Buddy Holly to Blondie.

And I have to admit that the sexiest 80's voice and songs--with the string of amazing music videos--was Bryan Adams.

I know, that might make me a tad lame, but I still crank up the radio for this song. And I sing along as loud as I can--with what little voice I have.

So here's to you Bryan Adams, I'll Tumble 4 Ya, provided it's '80's you :P
--unfortunately embedding the real music video was disabled. Copyrights, I s'pose, and all that :P So here's a German Band with my favorite cover of the song after wayyy too much time clicking through covers (and watch, I'll still listen to ten more before bed tonight).

Sorry For the Pause

2012-01-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

So the last month I have spent many hours huddled under the blankets on the couch. The heater has been out, and the overdue rains finally came. The house was cold, so cold I couldn't get myself to move unless I had the prospect of leaving the house.

There were some days that it was colder in the house than outside. Many evenings, watching some show with my guy, something would make me laugh and my breath would be visible in front of my face. I have gone through tea, cocoa, and ramen just because they were warm.

Meanwhile, I have been applying for more work, frustrated by the effort to make ends meet. I'm not here to complain--but it would be a lie to say everything is all right.

I'm trying to make the best of it, but when the resumes go in and nothing comes out of it, 3 years running and the few instances where jobs seem on the horizon, small business owners change their minds as to what they want from their business and leave me hanging...I am at a loss. I don't even know what to make of my situation.

I just keep plugging on, plunging on. But seriously--the definition of craziness is repeating the same action expecting a different result, right? So I switch up my style, and try to tote my abilities more. I approach it like fiction, so that my writing can become less self-conscious. I fiddle with word choice and sentence structure and form, daring a level of boldness the two-years-ago-me would have been appalled by.

Daily worries overtake me again, and writing, reading, blogging, intellect begin to pale in comparison to just finding a way to subsist another month.

But the landlord finally had the repair people replace the heater today. Here's hoping my attitude improves with my ability to move around the house again, and the warmth inside our tiny abode makes life and overcoming present circumstances seem possible once more.

Until Tomorrow-- hanging in there.

Critiques & Process V: Beta Readers & the Small Stuff--

2012-01-13T08:00:00.000-08:00

These are my writer friends, my beta readers. I am debating with myself when Silver Mask is done if I’m going to have 1 or 2 Beta groups.

This is because there is middling stuff and grammatical stuff. Some writers I know can look chapter-by-chapter at a story and give structure, setting, and character with a closer examination than I would expect from my alpha readers.

But the very last things I want to address is grammar, punctuation, word choice, sentence structure/ sentence clarity.

This because I want to focus on the story first. I need the fixing of the tiny details to be the sign to myself that the work is done. My temptation would be to meddle with my own story for the rest of my life--but that serves no good. It is important for me to tell myself “no more” and the pickiest details are the best way to do this.

Why?

To complete making grammatical alterations to a manuscript, I don’t have to wrestle with any big concepts. I go through the problem places systematically and I won’t need to reread my story. If I reread, I change. That’s just what I do. Nothing is ever done.

So the final changes need to be the brainless ones, and then, I go to the next step.

My grammarian writer friends will see the WIP here because their plentiful feedback will be just what I need. I won't have to give them a checklist, just a note and they'll know how to take it from there. Likely this will be very important because I'll be shifting to a new project at this point, partially to keep up momentum and partially to distance myself from the WIP currently changing hands.

Critiques and Process IV: What Do You Need in Alpha Readers?

2012-01-12T08:00:00.000-08:00

Everyone swears that the best critiques come from other writers. For most part this is a truism, with some exceptions.

To determine what you need in Alpha readers (the people who read your roughest draft) you need to determine what you are looking for, and how you work. You have to be honest with yourself about your strengths and weaknesses in writing. Then you have to know your pace and what you are better at fixing first.

I take a top-down approach because it’s easiest to fix the big stuff first and then the small stuff. This means separating my alpha and beta groups and asking them to look for different things.

Since this passage is about Alpha Readers, I’ll focus on what I need from this first group.

The Top:

This is the big stuff: plot, character, setting.

I need people to look for the big stuff, and ignore the little stuff. My experience with the majority of writer-feedback is that my groups have always been very good at the little stuff, but not so keen on the big picture things. Sometimes, this is because writers spend a lot of time on their ideas, and some can be uncomfortable critiquing the stuff they know you’ve spent ages developing. So they stick to grammar, sentence structure, word choice, scene clarity, what passages may or may not be needed for the sake of the chapter.

All of these things are fairly picky. They are very useful, but they are not The Top Stuff.

Some of my questions for the very top are these:

Are there any spots where there is so much back story you want to skip a paragraph or are bored by it?

Are there any spots where the characters do things that you feel is “unlike them” and if so where?

Are there any spots where the dialogue feels forced and if so where?

Are there any redundant scenes, discussions, descriptions?

Are you led into the story and the characters in a way that makes you feel that you develop an understanding of the world? & are there any spots where particular descriptions, characters, scenes could be expanded upon to give you a better idea of what is going on? Where are these passages?

Then I give a list of key concepts and terms that I need to get across and ask the reader to define them. This is so I know that I have built the world in a manner the reader can identify with and understand.

So my Alpha Readers by this requirement, should be readers. I need people who can disregard typos (as you can probably notice from this blog that I am prone to mistakes) and concentrate on the big picture stuff.

I am still creating the checklist.

Benefits to being able to have writers do this for you is that you probably won’t have to create a checklist to “teach” your readers how to critique. However, that depends on who you have around you, what their critiquing skills and weaknesses are. I love my writer friends and colleagues, but they happen to be better with the small stuff causing me to look elsewhere for my alpha readers.

Critiques & Process III: Determining Relevancy

2012-01-11T09:46:00.000-08:00

This is the hard one for me. I obsess over the critiques that I disagree with the most until I start to think that maybe, just maybe, they were right after all. This way of thinking is likely why I have found myself embroiled in endless drafts of novels, hovering around completeness without quite passing the finish line.

I have learned to work with this handicap, by addressing my own insecurities.

The first part of this is determining what I want to achieve with my writing. it’s like writing a mission statement for my novel, and my writing career as a whole. The purpose of this is to keep myself focused on what I consider the most important aspects of my own writing.

The statement of intent here is not for anyone else’s eyes. Rather, it is for me to use before reading critiques, to keep me from over-analyzing the feedback.

Next, I set up an order and a checklist. Being very business-like about the revision process helps to quite the more temperamental writer/artsy side that want to react to the feedback, and gives more precedence to the negative responses than the positive.

My checklist breaks down the responses into the following categories:

Plot/Character/Clarity

Description/ Scene/ Redundancy/Omission

Punctuation/Grammar/Word Choice/Formatting

Then I address them in order.

Currently this is written down, but I’m thinking of entering it into a spreadsheet for when the latest draft is done. The best way to turn the critiques objective are to make them seem less personal, and focus on the number of people who--having never met one another--agree on the same passage.

And yes, that means for me the group-form is mostly off. I need to keep the critiques non-emotional, so they can’t be personal to me or anyone else. So even if I know the people well, distance between my readers is better. Then I know if two people, uninfluenced by someone else’s critiquing method see the same thing wrong, then I should change it.

Because my writing style is more immersive, so too is my rewriting phases. So I need to be able to make and implement decisions quickly to keep up momentum. I need the momentum to be as continual as possible (allowing for life) but qualitative as well. That means I need to be able to identify problems objectively, quickly, and make changes. Groups tend to operate slowly. The slower I go, the more I second-guess, tweak and obsess. Slow inspires me to react emotionally because I don't react instantly, I'm more of a simmerer--something hits me a little off at first, it doesn't really bug me but if it goes unaddressed for any length of time it gathers importance and I get more upset and worked up.

There is no room for emotion when revising, and there is no room for me to react when working at top speed. Hence the need to know myself, how and what i react to in order to work around my own flaws to give my stories precisely what they require to reach their potential without me obsessing for years.

Critiques & Process II

2012-01-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

So what are the bazillion options out there?

I have received critiques via email, in person, in Google Docs. I have shared scenes on this blog and received feedback. I have posted to forums, and I have listened to critiques over the phone. Different people critique at different rates, so it’s best to know your style of writing and critiquing in order to pick the best mode of feedback.

When I’m writing, I am generally very immersed. I tend to focus and produce a lot, rapidly. Every time that I have tried to revise slowly I have failed to complete a revision. I get board, distracted, or move on. I take it this means that I need to be as immersed in the revision as in the writing. The few times that I have done that, the results have been much better.

I need critiques from people who can look at completed drafts and make comments on the whole thing. I need to take a break in between the completion and the revision, but not so long that my brain decides to go in a new direction with the story -- which it will and has done 4 times in the past 7 years. With one story. So I need to work fast. Take short breaks, write shorter pieces, but never let the pace slacken.

When I am done applying changes, according to a per-decided schedule, I need to be done. I will tweak something forever. I will always see my pieces as unfinished works. Again, that is something that the years of reworking stories has taught me a bout myself.

Critiques & Process

2012-01-09T08:00:00.000-08:00

Source: abundance-blog.marelisa-online.com via Drea on Pinterest

The years that I have been “dry” have been the initial editing/revising years. I did not realize when I launched into this process that there is such variety in ways in which you can receive critiques.

My mother had a writers’ group when I was in elementary school, it was focused on poetry and affiliated with the Sacramento Poetry Society. I came to believe that a critique group was the natural second step for completing a novel.

So when I thought I was ready to start putting my novel into shape for submission to agents, editors and the like, I found a group to join.

The group I joined raised issues that I had not foreseen, and in the process I began to realize that critiquing and evaluating a critique could take a whole new skill set that I hadn’t anticipated. A lot of articles I had read had made the process of evaluating critiques seen so very easy.

But we as people--we are flawed and we have things we are self conscious about. I was 21 at the time and there was plenty I was self-conscious about. So it took no time for me to plunge into a reactionary rewrite.

Those are bad. Very bad. They take you into the territory set up as “good” by your group, oftentimes, and away from the trajectory you wished for your project to follow.

Perhaps I was then a bit too impressionable, but you never know these things until plunge on in.

One advantage that I received from that first group was my first 2 conventions. At Baycon 2005, I had the opportunity to meet other writers and I learned that some authors used Alpha and Beta Readers instead of critique groups. This was my first introduction to the idea that there are about as many ways to have your work reviewed and critiqued as there are processes by which writers produce books.

In a roundabout way, I suppose, I have spent the last 5-6 years trying to find what my method was. Have you found what works best for you? where do you receive the best critiques for your fiction?

On Completing the Novel

2012-01-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

I have written 4 novels beginning to end. 1 is shelved. 1 is undergoing a massive revision and turning into 3 novels. 2 more are collecting dust until I get to them.

What happened?

Between 7 and 10 years ago, I wrote 3 novels. Back to back, it took me 3 years-ish. And then I thought “I need to get the first one critiqued.” The group made me think I had left too much out.

I underwent a massive rewrite. I had a falling out with the group. 2 years later I founded a new group. They told me lots of wonderful things. I made superficial changes.

Then I reread it with a critical eye.

The whole thing did not seem to be what I wanted it to be! My characters, the plot, the world--it needed help. And the characters were still there, nagging me. So back to the drawing board I went.

They say once you finish the first it is easiest to write another. But sometimes life tosses a wrench in those plans. For me, as many of my posts illustrate--life is about finding balance--and that balance is as important for my revised drafts as my rough.

This time, I know what foot I’m starting on and I know how to answer the even harder question--

What do you do when you finish that rough draft?

Words & Overuse -- What’s your crutch?

2012-01-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

Reviewing my not exactly half-finished project I realized that I overused the word “illicitly.”

Of all the words to be a crutch! I have no idea why this one reared its head. However, it did. So I find myself sifting through my rough work, wracking my brain for appropriate synonyms that don’t sound too out-of-place.

I have never found a word used this frequently, however from project to project I have favored and purged different words. The interesting thing is that each project seem to have it’s own group of crutch words. I wonder if it’s because the stories are so different or because of some mental zone I’m in while approaching any of these projects.

Nonetheless, they go on. And while crutch words are present--they aren’t the end all be-all.

So while I’m thinking about what I could use instead, I haven’t changed not one of them. The plan is not to alter anything in any seriousness until the entire project is done. Completion is important.

Class in Fantasy

2012-01-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

Source: theanachronistsjournal.blogspot.com via Drea on Pinterest

If this gets a little political--forgive me. This post is part of my perspective, and you don't have to agree with me :) But even if you don't--I think this is an interesting thing to think about. We (SFF fandom at large) have discussed sexism, we've discussed racism, and we've mentioned class vaguely when discussing hero-cliches but here are some of my thought:
I’m guilty of making most of my characters important. But we have a serious Cinderella pattern in Fantasy. No matter where a main character was born on a socio-economic ladder they inevitably find that they either are truly titled somewhere, or that they have world-altering knowledge, ability, or destiny.

It’s a trope, and I think the association with class and wealth is particularly telling. I’m not saying to completely dismantle the pattern--it certainly has enough versatility to stand up.

But I am an ardent follower of Occupy-Movement news, for all the protests’ flaws--and I like that they are drawing public attention to the fact that we have some deep-seeded resistance to actually discussing “class” in this nation. Yet, for a society that doesn’t like to think in terms of class we sure like to write about characters who find themselves waking up wealthy and important someday.

For that matter we like to read about them too. I would say that this fantasy is tied to the American dream. Once the American dream was to have a house, land and family. Now, I think it is merely to be in a better position in the future than one is now.

Inherent in that is the idea of transcending class. It is part of our worldview. No matter how we like to think of the issue, we want to believe that we won’t always be where we are. Time will improve our lot.

This is a fantasy, though, and not a reality. There is a class at the community college I attended once upon a time that deals with the “psychology of class.” There is more to class than how much is in your bank. It’s also how you respond to circumstances, to obtaining income, and beyond. As my parents used to tell me, “It’s not what you make, it’s what you do with it.”

So the Buy-Buy-Buy mentality and planned obsolescence have worked together to keep the cost of living higher than the average American needs to comfortably sustain oneself. So it becomes what one is comfortable living without, in order to find a way to get even a little bit ahead.

No wonder we have a Cinderella-complex in our fiction.

Changes in My Head

2012-01-05T08:00:00.000-08:00

I started the rewrite of Silver Mask about a year ago. It was taking a dramatically different path than I expected. Then I stalled. Not for lack of ideas, but mostly due to life.

And this stalling hasn’t been bad. I know that sounds weird, but I have mentioned the importance of prewriting in my previous posts. The ideas have kicked around, rolled around and somewhere along the line they grew up.

I think life has had an affect. I have gone through a very dark period the last two years, with this last year being the absolute darkest. This reality has altered how I treat my characters. As a response, the setting and plot and every little bit has changed.

Oh, and the change is for the better! I am no longer afraid to torture my characters. As I have fought depression, anger, and bitterness and been forced to accept these things in me it ha become all right for my characters to have the same flaws and others as well.

Source: sharbuck.tumblr.com via Drea on Pinterest

They may have been flawed before, but I think I over-romanticized them. That leaves the world feeling a little too sanitary. It’s bright colored and clean in the mind’s eye rather than dark, dirty and gritty.

Source: kesrows.tumblr.com via Drea on Pinterest

As reality lies somewhere between those two extremes, so do my characters need to be between the extremes, rather than standing nearer one end. This means that I can allow my characters to mature and let their emotions determine plot as much as the inevitable outcome I know the story will take. The tale becomes a lot more character driven.

I must say, too, that going through a darker period seriously informs one’s idea of how to torture characters, and how they react to adversity. There are things that have happened in the “prewriting” that are about to come out on the computer screen that I never would have considered. I would never have exploited my main female character’s naivete because, perhaps, I didn’t want her to be naive. It makes sense to have her be more trusting at the story’s beginning and through her trials the stuff that I was “telling” in previous drafts is shown instead and in a way that couldn’t happen before.

Images:

Landscape: Pinterest

City: sharbuck.tumblr.com

Selfishness

2012-01-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

When I first encountered advice to writers telling them they needed to be “selfish” in order to realize their projects, I understood it intrinsically. I understood that with dedication comes sacrifice.

I had no problem sacrificing my High School GPA or spending 8 years in college in order to take classes outside what I needed for transfer to a university, because those classes inspired and informed my creativity.

But with graduation, I found “selfishness” hard. Part of it was that I never actually understood the psychological impact of having no job. I didn’t move out of the parents’ house until my guy and I had a decent financial cushion. I worked, wrote and went to school for the 3 years of my upper division coursework at California State University, Sacramento.

When I lost my job, I tried to focus on searching and writing. Soon, writing was going all right, but the job hunt was hitting dead ends. I started to juggle odd jobs, just enough to slow our downward trajectory. It took two years before serious help was needed, but by that time picking up a book or writing was starting to make me feel guilty.

The stuff that was for me, and me alone, seemed to be more selfish than anything. It wasn’t about to make money quickly. We weren’t about to become secure, not like we were when I was in college and we were saving money, and socking it away.

With savings dedicated to food, bills and more I have had to change my perspective. My writing is for me. The escape, the “me time” is needed so that I can keep a clear head throughout the day. There are hard decisions ahead, and I am employing my belief in self-sufficiency in order to better my quality of life, but keep it affordable.

I am selling off the excesses of a better time, beginning sewing projects, and returning to jewelry making. Planning to sell what I can. Meanwhile I am tutoring English, and giving myself time to read, think and write.

While it is hard to be selfish when you are working toward a future with someone else, in a partnership, if you can’t take care of yourself then you can’t help anyone else either. That is something that I knew, but have had a hard time putting into practice recently. So with my mind set, dedicated to what I need to do, I hope 2012 will be better.

Measures to Mature My Process

2012-01-03T08:00:00.000-08:00

Pacing is not a good idea with roommates. I mean, I felt crazy enough when I used to live with the parents and my mom would tell me to stop because she could “feel the energy.” Lol.

My guy is the only one who has encouraged it. But due to realities of our modern economy, we have had 3 roommates since the start of ‘09. Thankfully our current roomie is an absolute dear, and I wouldn’t know what to do without her.

But I like her. And I don’t need her to know exactly how crazy I am. Because, well, I guess I still get a bit self-conscious about this whole thing. So I have adjusted my pacing to walking.

Source: google.com via Drea on Pinterest

I turn on Pandora on the cellphone, plug in the earbuds and head for the least car-filled route near my home. And then I zone in and if the world sees me walking, crazy-eyed and talking to myself---

Well, they can deal. I still need to think. I have to get my thoughts together before I write. I have done best, written fastest, and completed projects better the more pre-writing time I dedicate to it. So this is what I have to do.

And I have to listen to me.

Image: via viva institute

Zoning-In

2012-01-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

Source: dreamstime.com via Drea on Pinterest

So I mentioned that I “zone-in.” When I’m writing, this pattern gets down-right eccentric. I used to be completely self conscious of how my thoughts affected me. Most writers seem capable of sitting and dreaming. Quiet contemplation and organizing thoughts seem to be what people expect. I guess I’m not too good at doing what I’m supposed to. My imagination has always made me … move.

Writing is a very good way for me to lose weight, by the way. In my most “zoned-in” summer right after graduation I survived on berries with yogurt in the morning, iced coffee, and a small dinner. And when I zone-in, I have to move. I pace. Like a caged animal. I can’t help it, and dance beats help--and stuff in other languages or where I can’t quite hear the words, or if the words help with to punctuate the beat. When my thoughts get loud enough, I have to move.

Source: artinfo.com via Drea on Pinterest

I can zone-in so much that nothing else exists, but thoughts and my feet on the floor, and the music. I can’t feel hunger, I can’t feel my aching neck--which hurts more often then not--and in a sense I don’t exist. This is the best feeling ever.

When I write, I do something similar. I can fall into the page, into the words and everything outside the keyboard and my fingers dancing among the letters just...doesn’t exist. Then the story is, and becomes all that is. Even my fingertips cease to register. It’s a version of going on automatic, I think.

Source: google.com via Drea on Pinterest

*Sources For Pics: Found on Pinterest

Focus: dreamstime.com

Dancer: artinfo.org

Baby on Computer: google.com

2011, Good Bye!

2012-01-01T08:00:00.000-08:00

Frowny Face clipart
from Clker.com

2011 was a bad year. I think I started 2011 saying 2010 was a bad year. Let’s suffice to say that I have spent the time since graduating college in ‘09 trying to find myself again. Who am I without school? Who am I without reliable employment?

I have had trouble writing while worried about making rent and eating. So I tried to write about the stuff I was exploring: cooking and fashion.

In that regard 2011 was a fail, too. Mostly because I seem to be out of practice taking pictures. My fingers just don’t itch for the camera. When I cook, like when I write or plunge into a crafty-project, I zone-in. I focus on what I’m doing to such a degree, everything else just...goes away.

Thumbs Down Smiley clipart
from Clker.com

So that works well for getting stuff done when I put my mind to it, but it doesn’t always go well with pretty or detailed posts.

But I am now arranging for posts to post way ahead of time, and as long as I write fairly regularly and make sure the posts are cued--with luck, I'll be sticking with it.

Another big change that may be making this possible is: I have a job! A real job! something with a future! So, that changes my attitude towards all the stuff I "want" in my life--like my writing. I return to it because, well, I have other things handled.

That feels about this good:

Face Grin clipart
from Clker.com

If you're following the project: an aside

2011-08-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

Last week, poor health struck. It always happens at the worst times. Right before my health slid my characters decided to become unpredictable. Midway through that last "chapter" they went off on tangent I didn't expect. They might be taking me down a different plot than I planned for.

So while the next chapter is started, I need to weave myself back into the complete surrender for the chapter to finish. What happens is that I plunge on, and let the characters carry me. When the whole thing is done, there is a high probability that where the novel started (and what the world--and magic look like at the onset) is not what it will be when the last sentence draws to a close.

For me, I spend a lot of time "planning" but a plannings session is more like watching the characters dance along in my minds eye. Sometimes I run through an idea before it hits the page. But with "non-Don-Yin" stories that isn't likely to happen with the same frequency.

Pausing when writing is really a bad thing. Especially when I just got in the swing of things. But I couldn't control my health.

sometimes, I feel guilty that life strikes. I blame myself for not pushing myself when I don't feel well. Perhaps I should try to push next time...but this last week, a wash, i sin the past.

So...if you're curious about process, this is a bit of an inside to how it works for me :)

Chapter 5

2011-07-28T13:13:00.000-07:00

It took a week of sitting on the stool before we actually began to discuss magic. And the day and week did not go according to plan. I had heard the others girls chatting in the room at night I still understood very little, but had the impression that they were impatient.

Zoa was working with me to learn the language. She was nice about it, and started to inquire about Togan words. Something about exchanging linguistic knowledge made me feel better than simply being taught it. Zoa didn’t treat me with the cool disregard I was coming to accept from the Priestesses and other girls.

I also couldn’t help but notice that pale, slender and wide-eyed Zoa had no friends other than me. I didn’t know if there was something wrong with me, her, or if she had been assigned this duty.

It didn’t matter, I suppose. Not really.

When we sat there, on the stools in a wide circle, tilting our heads just so to see the Priestess enter and speak, there grew a tense silence. Perhaps I imagined it, but the sudden switch from incessant jabbering in the sleeping area contrasted markedly with the quiet that fell upon entering the classroom.

This morning, after a week of waiting, the Priestess entered and said nothing. She raised her hand and said one word: “Baidone!” and a gray-green light appeared in the center of the room.

“This is your magic. Pure. Simple. Energy.” Daimosk translated for me. “Chia is the energy of the Gods Before. It is more powerful than the newer magics, but also rarer. You are the entire Chianic apprenticeship of Lartiene, Kwenda and Togan. Videsse and Sanara have their own ways. But here, you girls--you are all there is.”

“What about boys?” I whispered to Daimosk, “Aren’t they Chianic too?”

“In Videsse and Sanara, yes,” he replied in a whisper. “Here? I don’t know.”

“Elessa!” called the Priestess. “Would you like to share your question?”

“What about boys?” I asked looking to Daimosk to answer.

“In Lartien! If you are going to speak and interrupt me, you should use the language of the place that took you in.”

Daimosk had to translate that. Sheer panic sent my heart racing. I felt sweat gather on my brow. “UnTaga.” Taga was girls, Zoa had taught me that. I didn’t know the word for boys. “Not girl” was the best I could think of off the top of my head.

“Taga,” I pointed at myself, “UnTaga” I pointed at Daimosk. Who was doing a lousy job of hiding just how funny he found this.

“Dairo,” said the Priestess.

I nodded. “Un dairo chianic?”

“Few,” was the priestesses reply. She gave no indication that she knew just how hard that little exchange had been for me. “That is how fickle the magic is. It chooses some and not others, and we can see it in the color of your eyes. Chia is the force we call on. The breath of the Old Gods. So it is important that we know our history, because we must know that human wars and the conflicts of the gods are like a reflection in the pond. Humans are the reflection, the fuzzy and insubstantial image. The gods are what are casting us here.

“They are so much more real, than are we. but like the reflection, our substance only appears similar. We are not. We are the water. They can splash at us, and send us into a million tiny pieces, and we would have the awareness of the stream: nothing. When we go to war, we are like the extensions of the gods. They fight in the heavens, and we on the plains--imitating their movement as oafish and flickering as a shadow. Likewise, is their intensity greater.”

“I’ve never seen a God,” said Zoa.

“Does your reflection see you?” returned the priestess.

Zoa pursed her lips. “If my reflection doesn’t see me, and I cannot see a God, how can I know the Gods exist?”

The Priestess grinned. I thought, perhaps she waited for just this question. She commanded her magic to grow. It swallowed the room.

“Aryndia speak to me!” she cried.

Aryndia. The Queen of the Old Gods. She who birthed the land and the people and the animals. She who Sighed and gave humans souls.

An eye appeared amid the gray-green light.

“Who calls?” boomed a deep, but feminine voice.

“Doesina of Lartien, Your Priestess.”

“What do you want, kuftana?”

“I want you to meet your new disciples,” and the Priestess Doesina gestured at us.

The large Green eye was set in gray skin, flecked with red-gold. It rolled over us and paused on me. “You are different, kuftana.”

“KaTogan,” I informed her though my heart sought a way out of my chest and my feet wanted so much to carry me away, “Not Lartien.”

“There are other lands in your kufti-world?”

“Yes,” I replied, speaking my tongue, not theirs. “And mine is far away.”

The one eye widened, as if in genuine surprise. I surprised the Queen of the Gods?

“Oh! I know that tongue!” she replied in Togani, “It is the language of change! Of the ones who escaped!”

“Escaped what?” I returned.

“The war, the war. The war that made your world--your people, Togani, they got away. They would not take sides. They would not fight the Gods. They would not fight for the Gods. But you are here, child? You are here with the ones who think I ask them to fight for me?”

“There are no Chianic in Togan, Aryndia, to collect your breath.”

“I thought of your people, five minutes ago. I am tired, little one, I am tired of hearing these kuftana talk about fighting for us. We are not at war. We quible, they kill. I must have given you breath, child, when I thought of your kin.”

“And now I am here, to learn.”

“Ah...change them, little one. and lead your people to greatness. They are great, the Togan.”

“We are not perfect,” I returned.

“Nor are your gods,” replied the Queen of the Gods.

“You charge me with much,” I returned against all better judgement.

The bottom of the eye crinkled, as if she were smiling. “Learn fast, little one, I am arguing with my son. The kufttana will go to war, and you child, are better than that.”

“If you say so, Great Lady.”

“I do say so. What, child, is your name?”

“Elessa KaTogani.”

“Go forth Elessa,” and the Queen of the gods drew up, out of the range, till only the curve of her red-orange lips could be seen, and breath, just a touch fell forth, circling through to me. It hit me like a strong wind and felt like lightning. “You shall be stronger than the rest.”

Somebody held me, someone else grabbed my arm, in small hands. Two people were saying my name. Daimosk and Zoa.

I did not know what happened next. I woke three days later in bed, with Zoa sitting at my side, and her skin was even more pale than normal. We said nothing at first as she gave me water and sat there.

“You’re my only friend,” she said, in Togan.

Thirsty as I was, water spurted from my lips.

Zoa smiled. “The goddess gave us gifts, because we cared for you--Daimosk and me. I know Togani and I think I can learn Sanara and Videssa and Kwendai...easy! It’s just about the most amazing ability I could think of! A blessing.”

“Language? Not magic?” I asked.

Zoa shrugged. “I didn’t ask to be Chianic. I’m not sure I even want to use my magics much. Language always fascinated me more. did you know Lartiene has three languages spoken within its borders? And five dialects of one, two of the second, and eight of the third? My father was merchant, and we traveled a lot. I loved the way people spoke. When my parents told my that I was getting an education, I was thrilled, but for all of the things I could have wanted--ending up learning magic wasn’t even on the list.”

“Learning Chia--shaping the goddess’ breath, that wasn’t on my list either. but I knew i was different.”

“And now,b most likely, you are even more so. My blessing isn’t without a condition, Elessa. The Goddess charged me to help Daimosk keep you safe.”

“Why?”

“Because she chose you...for something...and that is going to alter how the Priestesses deal with you here. They already are leery of foreigners. I’m scared that they will start thinking of you as something they can and should control.”

“So what now?”

“Get better,” she nudged me, “and then, if you want out of here? There’s got to be somewhere else for you and me to learn magic. I don’t like this place.”

“Me neither.”

“It’s a plan then.”

Chapter 4

2011-07-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

The first night I couldn’t sleep much. Everything was new, and new was scary. The room had an aroma of spice and dust. I slept on a bed, and not the ground. The softness of the mattress seemed another example of unnecessary excess. The roof prevented me from seeing the stars. But I supposed that it was for the better.

About midnight, or so I estimated, rain began to pelt the roof. It wasn’t winter, to my knowledge, so I was unaccustomed to hearing rain outside of the proper season. The sound sent me bolt upright in bed.

One of the other girls in the room turned in her sleep and muttered in her alien tongue. I settled back and stared at the ceiling.

Daimosk had explained that I was to share a room with other priestesses in training. Apprentices, he called us. Then told me he got the floor in the kitchen. He sounded so displeased with that option, and I think just about then I envied him.

He had the fire near. He rested on the floor, hard as earth. things that were so much more familiar to me. I couldn’t help but think I’d have slept easier that way. But even as those thoughts had passed through my head, and some emotion must have flitted through my face because Daimosk had assured me that the situation was “temporary” and he would have a room and cot.

I understood that the Priestesses didn’t want him to be placed in the same rooms as uncommitted girls. My people--while not using rooms--would have kept them separate too. There were all sorts of kinship bonds that could not be violated by impulsive choice. I got that. Perhaps there were some things the Lartiena and Togan would agree on.

Eventually the lack of sleep and the rhythmic patter of the rain eased me into slumber. I didn’t realize it of course until light hit my lids and I woke.

The other girls stood. Some spoke to each other, rambling jangle of consonants. No joking and laughter this morning, not like the night before. Instead, they seemed bleary eyed, sleepy, and muddled through a routine. I tried to mimic their patterns.

It earned me a smile from a yellow-haired girl. She gave me a robe and demonstrated how to fasten it. She spoke with gestures, and didn’t bother with words. I appreciated it. I wanted to forget for a minute, just how different our tongues were.

We splashed water on our faces, and brushed our hair. Mine was difficult to mannage with their brushes, but effort was not beyond me.

My companion gave me a ribbon, and I watched her bind her hair into a knot with the slender fabric. I did my best to imitate but my hair was considerably thicker.

She pursed her thin lips and then circled around to help. When the first attempt met with sheer disaster we both started laughing. There was something so silly about how hard a knot was. Then I thought of how my mother wore her hair, bound in braids and then secured, so she needn’t worry about it while working during the day. I thought of a quicker variant and held my hand up to stop my companion. She nodded, and stepped back. I took two locks and wrapped them together from scalp to end. I held up as an example, and while my companion looked a touch confused, she obliged. We spun the strands together, and then I pulled it into a tail on the top of my head. I gestured to indicate a circle around the locks, and my new friend tied the ribbon there, knotting it twice. I braided the twined locks and then wove the ribbon in and out like weaving a saddle blanket for a Genn. I knotted the whole thing and shook my head to test.

It held. I grinned at my companion. She smiled back, then reached to touch my hair.

“Chaya,” she said.

“Chaya-daom?” I asked, touching hers.

“Un,” she shook her head. “Som,” she touched her hair and then repeated: “Som,” touching my hair.

“Som-daom?”

She nodded. “Dat som chaya,” she said and then leaned toward me conspiratorially and pointed out a particularly thin-haired girl with all sorts of lumps in her bun and loose hair, “Gat som bayut. Un chaya.”

“Un?”

“Un.” She repeated.

I started to guess that un meant no. Som meant hair. Chaya and bayut were opposites and descriptors, but their meaning still eluded me.

“Yeada,” she grabbed my hand and led me from the room.

So Yaeda was “let’s go” or “come.”

We left the shared room for a larger room. We all wore pale blue robes and knotted hair.
The Lartien girls had paler hair than I did, some as light as my companion’s others as dark as the priestess who greeted us at the door yesterday. I was astounded by the diversity of shades between pale yellow and tree-bark-brown. I sidled nearer my companion, seeking an ally in this strange assortment of girls.

“Viad,” she said, pointing to a small round seat. It was not a complete chair, as there was no back, but it was similar. Many of these were arranged around the room. My companion sat in one to show me. I sat beside her in the one she’d pointed out.

I tucked my knees together, and balanced with my feet placed on either side, and my back straight. Just as my companion did.

She smiled, letting me know I got it right. “Zoa,” she said, hand to her chest. “Dat?”

Dat must mean you, indicating me. “Elessa,” I said.

“Achan,” she said.

Then the Priestess came in. Only then did I realize what I and all the other girls in the room had in common. We all had green eyes. We were all Chianic -in-training. Or, perhaps more appropriately, “Chianic Apprentices.”

The priestess looked behind her where Daimosk wandered in. He shuffled his feet, and hung about the edges of the room. He nodded when he saw me, then jabbed a thumb in the priestess’ direction to indicate that I should keep my attention on her.

I did so. But still heard him kneel behind me, where he could whisper in my ear, translating the lesson.

At first hearing his familiar voice and the Priestess’ odd language was a bit disorienting, but I managed. My first lesson was on the history of Lartien. Apparently, the priestesses felt this knowledge would help us to manage our abilities better. I had no idea. My magic had never expressed itself outside of my eye color.

In short, Lartien history was one of conquest and reconquest. War seemed as common as wealth. And, from my biased perspective, no body seemed happy with what they had. Then I immediately felt like a hypocrite for entertaining these thoughts. I didn’t want the expectations of my people on me, certainly not the way they had saddled me with them and then sent me away.

And I didn’t like everyone in my clan. Nor did everyone always pull their own weight, so sure, sometimes greed and laziness reared their heads. But the whole group--there certainly weren’t that many of us--came together and dealt with it. There was nothing nearly as affective of curtailing unwanted behavior as shame induced by public embarrassment and ridicule. My people used those things to good ends. Or mostly good ends.

We weren’t perfect. But we didn’t really go around fighting over territory. I mean, the desert was very large and there always seemed plenty of land for us. We rarely even came into contact with other groups outside of the yearly Meeting Mound rituals. Thinking of so many people so densely located, not moving, with access to such luxury...

I wondered if the combination drove them to madness. Or something. I don’t know. I was being judgemental.

I really needed to stop that. These people took me in, and Zoa over there--she was nice. Should I judge the people harshly from their history and because they didn’t do things as I would? That wasn’t fair, and I knew it. The history should be telling me that with different circumstances there are different outcomes. Yes. I could choose to interpret it that way.

How Lartien did things wasn’t good or bad. Their history was in the past, and could not be changed, so what cause did I have to impose desert-sahped morality on their river-valley and wood-laden mountainous realm? Their realm was different, their people were different, and a different set of skills were needed to live in Lartien than in Togan.

And I needed to learn those skills fast. I couldn’t soak them up so quickly if I sat there passing judgments on my new hosts.

So I renewed my attention and learned precisely what Daimosk had meant last night. Sanara was just as wealthy as Lartien. They grew a lot of the same things. They sold these things to Videsse, Kwenda, Togan and the islands beyond the Sea. They threatened each other, and the only way that would be solved was war.

In the past, when war came, the Priestesses and Priests, all of whom possessed a variety of magics, were called on to assist battle.

I looked at Daimosk. His expression was sobering as he translated her words, no emotion touched his tone. My blood chilled as surely as if the strange out-of-season rains had managed to reach my veins.

Chapter 3

2011-07-26T13:23:00.000-07:00

The boat wobbled and groaned. We plunged into the night, and clouds rose to hide the moon and stars from me. If it weren’t for the bahga’s wuffling breaths I could have convinced myself I was alone in darkness. I thought that being on the inland sea at night felt a lot like being trapped between words. Well, at least as I would have imagined being trapped between worlds would be.

As dawn neared, lights of other boats appeared. They bobbed in the distance like candles being led in procession down the villager’s streets--something I’d seen in clear midwinter nights. An alien ritual in an alien world, somehow, something comparable to that sight heralding my arrival in Lartien fit. As the sun rose, the boat pulled into shore.

I hadn’t slept that night. Wide eyed and nervous as I was, I just could not find the ability to seek sleep while on the boat. As soon as I stepped onto the solid ground, my exhaustion caught up with me. I yawned, my eyes hurt and my stomach began to protest.

Diamosk, no longer clad in extensive linen, gave me once-over. “Keep moving, you won’t feel it.”

I scowled, but helped him unload the Yurpi the bahga from the boat. We bid the boatman goodbye and off we went into Lartien. My first sight of it was full of fog that swelled up from the Jardelle sea, and cascaded over the broad woody terrain. There were long planks at the shore, to which boats sat tied and swaying with the water. To my left a small market huddled by the shore. The smell of fish stung my nose. Only a few people, like shades moving in the fog, had arrived to set up baskets, blankets and wooden tables.

On my right stood a little building and many work benches, boats were tipped on sides and laying face down on the ground. I presumed it was for fixing them.

Away from the shore, trees and hills dominated. They closed in on the sides, green tops rising above the clouds. The road began after we passed the building. Mud replaced dust on this end of the sea, and the caw of seabirds resounded through the morning air as we started off toward the treeline.

Yurpi certainly didn’t need to stop as much in this colder climate. We mounted as soon as there was enough light to do so, and plunged into the day. We stopped mid-morning when Daimosk, now wearing sleeves rolled up to the elbows and baggy pants stuffed into knee-high leather boots, realized I was shivering.

“Cold? Well, I guess you were used to that hot desert.” he pulled out his linens, and doubled them up before draping the fabric around my bare shoulders. “Not so fun, hunh, being away from what you’re used to?”

I said nothing to that. There was no reason to protest, no reason to defy the statement. There was also no reason to assent, either.

He rubbed my arms and legs, through the fabric. I started at first, uncomfortable with the touch.

“Shivering isn’t good. just trying to get you warmer--I was paid to get you to the Priestesses, so I will. Whole and healthy. Precisely as I found you.”

I supposed that was his way of saying he meant no harm. I still was grateful when he removed his hands and we started forward again.

The trees rose around us even as the fog peeled away. The sounds of forest unnerved me, and I found that I held myself tense enough to cause a headache. I expected some great beast to be hiding behind a massive tree and race after us. It would be so easy to be spotted, attacked and defeated here.

Daimosk did not seem concerned. Not in the least. When the last of the fog had vanished and the trees grew in more densely, the elevation increased, he actually began to whistle!

I wanted to hit him. I mean, was he calling out to predators intentionally? “Hey! we’re here! on this big meaty bahga! Come get an easy meal!” Or was he just stupid?

Perhaps it was me, though, operating on false assumptions. Nothing happened and by nightfall we were high in the mountains. Daimosk led us off the main road to a cobbled street that wound tight to the mountainside and ended before a house with two levels. There was a small metal gate and a fence composed of long strips of wood, stacked up tight.

“This is the first house of the Priestesses,” Daimosk said. “We’ll go inside and I’ll have completed my task.”

“Are you staying?” I asked, eyeing the cloud of smoke circling up from the rooftop.

“For the night, if I’m permitted.”

I didn’t hate him then. Not for whistling, not for rubbing my arms and legs, not for the silly name he gave his pet. I didn’t know what to do here, with no one familiar. He was the last link I had to Togan, to home, and he was a tenuous link at best.

When he knocked and the door opened, a strong aroma filled my nose. Warmth caressed my skin. The woman who stood in the entryway had tree-bark-brown hair and eyes the color of the sky, just a touch light than that of a Genna-ko. I wondered what magic she commanded. Her eyebrows drew together when she saw Daimosk, and she opened her mouth as if to say something. Then she saw me. I saw her look me over, taking in my appearance no doubt which was dark where she was light, and likely as odd to her as her complexion was to me. Then she met my eyes.

An “Oh...” rushed from between her lips, and I could tell from the relaxed lines about her brow and mouth that she understood what brought us here.

She and Daimosk rattled off a string of unintelligible syllables. Back and forth, back and forth, I tried to discern some recognizable sound and failed. I knew it was language, but the tongue, like the building, like the bone-pale skin was alien.

I stood on the threshold feeling lost.

Then the bone-white woman with tree-bark hair and sky-colored eyes, grabbed my shoulder gently and nodded at Daimosk. together we went inside.

She looked at me and a long string of sound fell from her pink lips.

“She asked if you want food,” said Daimosk.

Relief flooded me, and I felt not so lost again.

The woman looked up at Daimosk, and said something to him to which he responded. Then he shrugged.

“Guess you’re not getting rid of me, little Chianic-princess,” he said, “apparently, no one else here can speak Togan. So they need me to teach you Lartien and to translate in the meantime. Good thing I like steady pay! So--eating?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then let’s go.” He translated everything to the lady and she smiled down at me. She smiled, though, as if to a child. Didn’t she know I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t undergone the rites of womanhood? I was an adult in my people’s eyes.

I bristled under that smile and the woman pulled away.

Daimosk said something. I wondered if he were explaining my behavior. I suppose it didn’t much matter. We sat and ate in a large room filled with light, and rich spices, and a lot of chatter. I drowned it out and concentrated on the food at hand. Daimosk had to show me how to use the utensils at my disposal. My people never made anything that couldn’t be eaten by hand. It just never made any sense to have metal or wooden utensils. They would become just one more thing to carry, and that seemed impractical.

In a society where people spent their lives cloistered behind wooden walls, I suppose they didn’t have the same concerns about weight and portability.

They spent a lot of time on frivolity, just judging by that first meal. There was cloth on the table. There were decorations on the walls, as well as candles. I understood the need for thick clothing, so that wasn’t so odd. The priestesses wore ornate clothes, which I also understood.
I did not understand the fancy painting on the plates, the stain to the windows, and the color on the walls. It all seemed...frivolous. There was no practical use.

I knew it was unfair. I mean, how they ordered and arranged their society and persons was so alien, it wasn’t my place to judge them. But I couldn’t help it.

Despite their warm smiles, and the laughter I could hear--one of the few things I understood--I wanted to use my people’s measurements to gauge these foreigners. I had to hold onto something that was me.

Here, even eating took practice and concentration. I was so self-conscious that I would mess up and someone would turn an ingratiating smile on me, something that was meant to encourage but would serve only to make me feel ever more out of place.

“They seem so friendly, don’t they?” asked Daimosk when I successfully managed to finish my serving of meat.

“I suppose.”

“I want to warn you, Elessa. The priests and priestesses, while not the official governing body of Lartien, have strong ties with those who do rule this realm. There has been rumor for some time of a possible war with Sanara, Lartien’s southern neighbor. If that happens, these women, and maybe even you, may be called on to defend Lartien.”

“I don’t belong to them. I won’t involve myself in their battles.”

He shrugged. “I’m not here to tell you what to do, just translate. I only wanted to let you know what you may be getting yourself involved in.”

“You could have told me sooner.”

“I was charged to drop you off. But now that I’ve been hired as a translator, I guess I’ll take it as my job to be your guardian against Lartien madness.”

“You’re not from Lartien?”

“No.” he took a bite, while I stared and watched him chew. “I’m originally from Videsse. My mother, though, was Togan from Kwenda. That’s why I speak your language. She made ceratin I learned it. she thought I would be able to do more for my father’s business. Little did she know that my half-brother had plans to take over the whole thing. I was left to my own devices after my parents died.”

“What was your father’s business?”

“Sailors, of a sort.”

“But now you have a bhaga....”

“I can’t go on the outer waters any more. My brother...is not friendly to me...if I stay hidden, he won’t come after me. If I make myself known? Well, that would be different.”

“So what is your job now, exactly?”

He grinned. “Sometimes mercenary, sometimes spy, sometimes courier, and--” he nodded at the woman who had opened the door, “--and sometimes translator. Whatever and wherever my knowledge and skills can earn me a meal.”

I turned my attention back to my food. This was the man I chose to trust among all these laughing women drinking wine and enjoying good food? Was I crazy? Would I ever be the leader my people expected me to become?

I really shouldn’t judge anyone, I thought, poking at the minute amount of vegetables on the plate, that part of my mind seems to have something wrong with it.

Chapter 2

2011-07-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

He arrived on a hairy bahga that shook its head as it shuffled its paws through the sand. He war white to arm against the sun, but was slender under the piles of fabric. I saw nothing but his gray eyes, and somehow that unnerved me. I felt that I was being greated by a ghost, a vision of walking sand with storm-light eyes.

Then he reigned in his beast. It reared it’s head, sending the long gray-white locks bouncing.

“He was made for colder weather,” said my guide, dismounting in a bound.

“Then I hope you have much water,” I said.

“Oh, I do.” He squinted up at the sky. “I hate this desert.”

I wanted to take offense to that. This foreigner come here and slander my home? But I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I heard words against my home. Most likely, in the fancy streets of Lartien I would hear worse. So I lifted my head to imitate the Genna-ko’s regal bearing and looked my guide into--cloth. Even his eyes were covered now.

“Too pale for this Chia-cursed desert,” he muttered. “Climb on up!” and he launched himself back onto the Bahga.

“I don’t even know your name!” I protested, planting my feet in the sand.

“You know I’m here to get you to Lartien, so what else do you need to know?”

“Who you are.”

“Daimosk. Now get up, and lets get you east as fast as this hairy monster can.”

I swallowed and dragged my feet, stirring little swirls of desert sand. I tried to remember the smell of it, to hold onto the feeling of the grainy sand against my skin. Daimosk offered a hand, and helped to lift me up behind him.

“Hold tight,” he said, wrapping the arm he held about his middle. I followed suit, and wrapped the other around him too.“Oof, not that tight. And sit back just a bit, this is going to be different from riding a Genn.” He lifted the reigns as I obeyed his suggestions.

“I’ve never ridden a Genn,” I said.

“What?!” He half-turned, but the bahga leapt forward, all paws flying. It was a jouncing ride,a nd it took all of Daimosk’s attention. I tried to hold tight, and lean back, to keep my balance in the tiny saddle. I fought the urge to bury my head in his narrow, linen-draped back.

Daimosk stopped to water the bahga and himself many times before the day was done. I blamed his multitude of clothing, but he claimed it was essential. “Too pale,” he said when we stopped near to dusk. “I’ll burn if not covered.”

I shook my head, and took a sip of water despite. “I’ll find us something to eat.”

“Where?”

I sighed, not wanting to fight and not wanting to explain myself. This was still my homeland. I knew what to look for.

“Stay close!” he called after me.

I didn’t wander far, and I kept my eyes and ears on the spce around me. So easy to attract unwanted attention in the open dessert. I found a little brown and green weed, curling up from the sand. I shoveled earth away until I found the root. Big and juicy, and full of water. I pulled it from the ground and kept digging. The ground turned from sand to clay, and there--an underground pool. I filled a skin with water, followed the pool to three more tubers and took my loot back to the campsite.

Daimosk whistled when I unloaded water and roots.

“Where?”

“Around,” I replied.

“It’s not much...”

“It’s food,” I replied. “Boil the roots, the green bits can be used to make tea, or broth. You choose.”

He started a fire from a kit kept wrapped in a leather bag. There was a tiny iron pot hanging from his saddle. It had barked my shins twice on the ride. He used a touch of the water I had collected, and boiled the root as instructed. The remaining water was returned to the flask when our dinner had softened.

The roots had a touch of sweetness and a coarse, dry texture. But food was welcome. I watched the stars as I drifted to sleep a few yards from the fire.

The next morning we rose, munched on the last root and off we went again, through the sands. By dusk the second day I saw the tree line and the remains of our winter-homes. Daimosk knew of an Inn in a larger town, just beyond the first one we traipsed through. I said nothing.

My people and the townsfolk had little in common. We traded, we spent the winters together and occasionally intermarried. But really there wasn’t much I wantede from them. I certainly had never been curious about how they lived. Swaddled in too much clothing, just like Daimosk, and breaking their legs and backs stooped over crops all year round and never falling asleep under the stars....I just never saw the point.

I knew Lartien was bigger than these towns. I knew that their realm was based on the same practices and the same stay-in-one place mentality. I knew I needed to learn to live with it.

I just didn’t want to.

We made it to the Inn and Daimosk tied the Bahga to a rail infront of the building. He led me in and in a rush was stripping off his excessive layers. He was right, however, his skin was very pale. The color of sun-blasted sand, pale with a yellow -brown tint, that may or may not have been a tan. While my skin gained and lost color from summer to winter and back again, it was never as dramatic as that of the townsfolk. And the townsfolk had stories of other peoples to the north and east that were much lighter than even they.

I wondered if I would stand out in Lartien, with my skin designed for the sun and desert and south. I was Chianic, though, so what would it matter?

“Two rooms!” he said to the Inn keeper, his voice booming.

“We got one,” said the Innkeeper, eyeing me. He didn’t meet my eyes.

“Then two cots.”

“Fine,” said the Innkeeper. “Food?”

“Yes.” Daimosk handed him shiny disks that glinted in the candlelight.

“Seat yourself, the meal will be brought out.”

I followed Daimosk to a tiny table wedged into a corner, opposite the hearth. The food was very cooked and swimming in sauce. I ate it dilligently. I ate something they dubbed “bread” for the first time. It was spongy, and balnd but not bad. I followed Daimosk’s example and usedthe bread to scoop up sauce and eat it. I left the plate clean and then we went to the room.
He, naturally, took the larger cot. I was relegated to the smaller one.
We woke at dawn. There was a bird somewhere, calling to the sun. I sat and stretched, but it didn’t completely resolve the stiffness in my back.
I winced.
“They’re not that bad,” said Daimosk about the cot when he saw my face. “come on, let’s see if we can get to the Jordelle by nightfall.”
We followed long strips of dirt paths which Daimosk called roads. The towns grew in size, and clustered along roadside and, based on what Daimosk told me on breaks, they also huddled by riverbanks some distance away.
Between the towns, forest replaced sand. The earth turned from gold to clay-brown. Animal sounds changed, and as night loomed, the sounds swallowed me. I held onto Daimsok more tightly.
“Shhh,” he said, “It’s all right. We’re almost to the sea.”
I looked up, when the light had left, and I saw no stars. Instead there was only tree branches. Their shadows looked so much like fingers or a massive spider web. I felt closed in. The world was shrinking. I had no space.
The trees parted.
Water stretched out as far as I could see, glistening ijn the moonlight. Lights on little vessels and buildings on the water’s edge winked at me over the expanse.
“All right, let’s get out of Togan, shall we?”
“We’re still in Togan?” I asked. I had felt for more than a day that we had left my home behind. I knew that, as the world saw it, my people and the townspeople shared a realm. But there had never been any formal organization of territory. The townspeople couldn’t use the expanses of dessert and grassland we traversed, and when we traded Genn and other beast of burden to them, there was always mutual respect. But we never thought we were the same.
“Well, yeah,” said Daimosk. “But when we cross the Jardelle, we won’t be,”
“We are crossing?”
“On a boat,” he said, and pointed to a vessel that bobbed on the moonlight-splattered water.
“A boat...” The word felt strange on my tongue.
“Come, I just need to book us three passage.”
“Three?” I asked.
“Well, I’m not leaving Yurpi behind.”
“Yurpi?” I asked incredulously and Daimosk patted the big hairy bahga. “Really?”
“What?” he asked

I bit my tongue to keep my thoughts from rolling off it. We dismounted as we appraoched the shore and then Daimosk exchanged more shiny disks--currency-with a man standing beside a boat tied to shore. He took the coins and Daimosk, with....Yurpi... climbed onto the boat. He beckoned me and I followed.

The boat wobbled under me, and I fell to my butt.

“You’re a clan-girl,” said the boatman.

“I am.”

“Yeah, stay seated, and hold on to something. This will be a strange journey for you.” He untied the boat and pulled the rope in. He eyed the bahga while winding the rope to rest in the bed of the boat. “In fact, this is looking like it’ll be a strange journey for all of us.”

Chapter 1

2011-07-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

When spring came to the Hadhen plains, all the ViKaTogani set off to meet at the Midsummer Gathering Mound; this was my favorite time of the year. We followed the Genna-ko, who called to the Genn and got them to move in an orderly fashion with no more than the sound of her voice, the click of tongue to teeth and the pounding of the ko-staff on the dry earth. The Genn, long legged and docile, were our prize. We drank their milk, we ate their flesh, and we traded them, occasionally for the foreign goods. We didn’t need much. Our Genn gave us everything we needed.

Or so I thought.

To me, the Genna-ko was a living Goddess. Her dark hair hung long and loose, bound just a bit with twine, to keep the ends from straying into her face. Her skin was an earthen-color, and her eyes a golden-brown. I always wanted to grow up to be just like her and knew that I wouldn’t.

I willed this journey on the spring of my thirteenth year to last forever. My first blood had marked me a woman in the midst of dreary rains while we huddled in the winter home on the edges of the farmers’ lands. This time the Midsummer would mark change. I didn’t want change to come. So rather than look ahead, I watched my earth-brown feet in twine and Genn-leather sandals, moving of their own accord. I begged them not to.

The sun rose over the gold-splattered Hadhen plain every morning, just to spite me. Sunlight dripped down the broad backs of our Genn, finding golden highlights in the short russet fur. The Genn moved. The Genna-ko called. And off we moved into another day, though I willed every bone to remain, willed every muscle to refrain from moving, and never actually seemed to will stillness successfully. The sun always rose. The Genn sought water and so we continued toward the Gathering Mound. I travelled with the rest, despite what waited for me. I trudged on to the Gathering Mound, to inevitable adulthood.

When the Summer Sun rose, earlier than ever that year, I had not slept. I watched the stars twinkle to nothing and then be swallowed by the day. I didn’t want to be renamed. I didn’t want to know what my green-eyes meant. I knew they marked me as different. I had always known. No one else looked like me, not even my parents. I feared that on my woman-rites the Genna-ko would stand and raise her gnarled, use-polished staff and declare that I was not Togeni and had never been. I feared being cast out like I feared nothing else.
I plodded behind the Genna-ko as the Summer sun rose. The others of my people the ViKa, fell behind. It was customary for the leader and the new-adult to walk to the Gathering Mound together. The Genna-ko announced the arrival of the ViKa, and my presence announced that we had three to commit to adulthood rites--myself and two boys.

The rites were not daunting. Their meaning swallowed me, however.
“It is exciting, Elessa!” my cousin Ishane said when she found the rags in a wooden bucket, “You get to marry!”

“That is not required,” I returned. “And it is not the only thing that can happen.”

“Pah,” said Ishane, dismissing my concerns with a flutter of a hand. Her eyes, however did not meet mine. My odd eyes.

She hadn’t tried to console me again. Sometimes it crossed my mind that she had spoken to someone older. Someone who knew what was coming.

Fear squashed my curiosity. Perhaps that made me a coward. I didn’t want to be a coward.

The Genna-ko led me to the Shan-tent, where the girls waited to become women. The boys went to the Bhan-tent. There were two boys from the ViKa who had walked at my side up the path that wound up the sun-seared side of the Gathering Mound. I did not look up to see them, but I felt the hot burn that said at least one of them watched me vanish into my place.

The Genna-ko stood at the center and looked down her wide nose at me. I fought not to squirm under her regal gaze. “Elessa KaViKaTogeni dies tonight,” she declared.
“Tomorrow...someone new will rise.”

It was custom. Oh, I knew the customs of my people. But fear rose inside me. It clenched my throat tight and it battered wings in my chest. My stomach about dropped to rest in my ankles.

“Yes, Genna-ko.”

“Mourn tonight. Tomorrow, you rejoice.”

“Yes, Genna-ko,” I said.

She pounded the ko-staff once. Then left. I sat alone in the dark, with finality hanging thick in the air.

That was a long night. At dusk another girl from a different group was ushered in by her Genna-ko. I listened to the same speech I had been given, but remained still. When she and I were alone, our gazes met. We said nothing.
I laid down on the hard-packed ground, and stared at the canvas. There would be no stars to keep my focus. I knew sleep would be the wiser option, but agitation kept me awake. My companion slept. I could hear her breathing even out as the night dragged on.

I tried to count her breaths, because they were more audible than mine. I got to a hundred twenty before light began to creep about the edges of the tent. I suppose I started too late. Or perhaps my companion had been awake longer than I realized, her own nerves must have failed when faced with exhaustion.

My nerves won out.

The two Genna-ko appeared with real dawn. We stumbled into the daylight, and were ushered before a large bonfire.

Opposite, all the clans of our people gathered. They wore their brightest beads, their longest feathers, necklaces of polished bone, and hoops of ivory. White shone against dark skin in an impressive display. If I didn’t know how important this ritual was last night, I knew now.

But really, I’d always known. Knowing had never made me dread it less.

“Before you are Elessa and Kimata,” droned the Genna-koi, their tones and voices matched pitch for pitch, syllable for syllable, sound for sound making it seem that the words echoed. We were surrounded by valley, making the effect awe-inspiring. I felt my knees weaken and I wasn’t even standing, but kneeling. The two Genna-ko continued to speak together, “Yesterday they were girls, seeking guidance from their elders. Today they are women.”

Then my Genna-ko was quite, only the other spoke: “I bring to you Kimata. As a girl she showed a keen instinct when tending the Genn. She helped some to give birth last winter while the rains and storms scared them. She found a stray foal last spring and guided it back to the heard. She, I name my successor. She will be Genna-ko. She is now named Kimata kaGennakaTogani. Rise, Kimata Genna-ko.”

I stared at my companion. She shook head to toe. Envy rose like a sandstorm starting in my belly and lifting toward my eyes.

Our community greeted her with the respect due a Genna-ko. Congratulations circled the community gathered. Beads and bangles rattled, hands clapped, and the sound built until it sounded like a stampede. And when it quieted, when the community was again silent, Kimata was woman and Genna-ko.

My turn.

“I bring to you Elessa. As a girl she demonstrated little. But we knew the signs when she was born. The green eyes. Her spotty ability to predict a sandstorm in a clear sky, or to know when a preadtor approached before the Genn knew, only reinfiorced our knowledge. Unfortunately, our people have not seen one like Elessa for many generations. There is not a man or woman with the ability to train Elessa, not in the whole of Togan.”

I trembled like a foal who’d caught scent of a sand-bear.

“After much consideration, we have elected to send Elessa kaTogani to Lartien for training in Chia--the magic of the Old Ones, and of Chiadina itself. I name her Ellesa Chianic kaTogani.”

I was being sent away. My worst fear. I watched the Genna-ko, dreading whatever might come next. I didn’t expect what actaully happened. I thought I was being rejected, cast out, abandoned.

But no, the Genna-ko knelt. My Genna-ko, my idol, knelt before me. Then Kimata’s genna-ko joined her. Other genna-ko, from all the tribes of my people came forward and knelt.

“We have not been privileged enough in many generations to have a Chianic to guide all of us,” said all the Genna-ko at once. If I had thought before this decision was only up to my leader, that illusion vanished instantly. “The legends say that when a Chianic is born,” all five Genna-ko continued in unison, “times for either trouble or greatness are upon us. We send you to Lartien, to train, Ellessa, and hope that upon your return you bring greatness to all Togan.”

Then they touched their foreheads to the sand and rose.

“Rise Ellessa Chianic kaTogani.”

I stood. My knees held me up, surprising me to no end.

“Make all Togan proud.”

My people broke into such thunder that I jumped. Then my family surrounded me. I was being hugged and kissed and applauded and spoken to, all in such a rush that it blurred together. by the end of the night I feared going away less than I had before. I would still be welcome back home, after training. If they didn’t have to send me to Lartien, they would not have. But they had no choice to send me, and I had no choice but to go.

I never expected that when I ventured abroad, I would carry my people’s hopes with me. I wondered how I’d always known. Was that the magic? I suppose it didn’t matter. That was the first night in awhile that I slept.

Elessa Chianic and the Magics of Chiadina

2011-07-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

Next up! Gods, Magic, and choosing my main character.

Planning a world requires planning how it works. I usually like tying magic to gods, it just has always made sense. I mean, when we hear of magical things happening in mhythology, it's generally tied to some god, goddess or mystical creature that originates from the Realm of the Gods. If I go off of the concept that we need to draw boundaries in order to formulate identity, than it stands to reason that in order to wrap our minds around the concept of mortality (an unavoidable reality) we create stories of what immortality is. By understanding the fiction, we can begin to grasp fact. So structuring a belief system and how that belief system is practiced in each realm gives a better understanding of how each realm operates.

In Togan, it makes sense that the religious leader is closely linked to the herds. The person may or may not also be a secular leader. Because I picked Togan as the place to satrt thestory, and because my main character is not going to spend a long time there, it mmakes plot-sense to join the secular and spiritual in the leader that also commands the group-owned herd of Genn. Since the leader is affiliated with the Genn, it makes sense that his/her title will derive from the animal's name. Hence "Genna-ko."

In the more hierarchical realms, it makes sense to see more institutionalized forms of religion. With magic affiliated with the gods, the Temples become places that someone can learn magic.

I like magic as an inborn trait, generally accompanied with a physical representation of the magic. I have a bad habit of choosing eye-color as a representation of ability. Perhaps this was due to Dune's influence, or maybe just because I love the "window to the soul" idea. Still, if magic is in part a spiritual thing, than a "soul" link makes sense. There needs to be a tie to the divine, though. And divinity need not be perfect--they can be flawed as any Greek god--but the link needs to be there for this to work.

Now, that doesn't mean that magic is kept out of politics. Honing belief into a weapon is a skill humans have perfected many times over. This, again, I think is part of our pattern in constructing our identity based on structuring first what it is not.

The crazy bit of this is that most of the "Not" is so far from accurate that two sides can think exactly the same thing about each other "They eat babies!" --without ever realizing how fallacious their interpretation of their neighbor actually is.

But moral judgments based on fiction is how we vilify an enemy. Governments have to create an extreme "Other" to gain support for war, so propaganda goes out. That includes making war a moral imperative. and if there is a moral imperative to war, it is okay to use religious figures (priests and priestesses) and magic in the fight.

When this is achieved, however, and the people are calling for a moral impertive to fight, the political/socio-economic origins of the conflict are often obscured or wholly disregarded. Politics and economics cease to matter when humans think that war is necessary for the triumph of "goodness." So in the pursuit of maintaining "ghoodness" humans can easily sanction extreme evil, or even their own enslavement without batting an eye.

(This is me planning a plot based on some more academic/intellectual interests)

So enter the main character!!!

Ellessa will be Chianic-- the most powerful of the 4 magics.

born in Togan where there is no one to train her

--pastoral and foraging communities tend to have much smaller populations than agriculture as there is less need for massive numbers of offspring and generally a plant around that can prevent pregnancy, abort a developing fetus, etc--yes, there are natural birth control plants, but human's insatiable appetite for them over the centuries has led to extinctions of these plants. One of my profs in college had lived with a foraging society that still used one of these plants quite successfully. However, they weren't keen on sharing it because they knew their neighbors would descend and steal the rest of the plants, which were becoming endangered as it was. The most famous birth control herb was obliterated by Roman women in ancient times, and was related to licorice--

So Elessa will be sent to Lartien to train with the Priestesses.

Her ability and situation will create a manner to explore plot and story through a character who knows little or nothing, making the exploration of story easy for a half-developed world, and easier to follow for a reader.

The war can mount in the background, and the main character's outside perspective will make the situation more tense. The Lartien government and priestesses will try to use her to achieve their own ends. But the fact that her people, back in Togan, have high hopes for her as a leader make her seek away out of her training.

The Lartien don't make it easy, and she has to find a way out before her training is complete.

Notes on Chiadina: Resources

2011-07-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

Based on the map, I then select resources that would make sense. Namely, crops, lumber, fish, etc.

Because this is a fantasy and I absolutely love wold-building, I am choosing made-up names for items. I welcome anyone who wants to draw what they think any of these things might look like to e-mail me their pictures. I promise to post them!

Kwenda of the North:

Trade with Xolanh
Fish from Dwoba & Twea
Chash grains from lower Kwenda
Voi orchards--lower Kwenda
Bahga herds--Upper Kwenda
Disse wood from Dwone forest

Videsse of the North East

Resources:

Fish from Rydie and Baikessa Seas
Fish from the Ehrene Lake (Sea)
Kavar furs from the Ekida mts.
Three ports & geographic location = shipping & commerce center (potential piracy)

Lartiene of the East

Resources:
Chash grains
Fish from Baikessa and Ehrene
Trade with Jodair
Nallo Orchards
Anic vinyards
anca oil
Jolar wood
Temm orchards
Dalki, Besso, Vahg = crops
Shair, Lomi, Boona = herds

Sanara of the South

Resources:
Baikessa Straight = fish
Trade w/ Jodair
Jordelle and Hallone Lakes
Temm orchards
Fiar crops (like barley)
Fiada = (like beer)
Chash, Besso & Avikan = crops/grains
Boona and Twenni = herds

Togan of the West

Resources:
Forest & Plains & Crops
Herds: Genn (like horses), Ipha (like donkeys), Bahga (like cows)

Lumber = Disse, Jolar, Enda

Crops = Fiar, Chash, Voi, Temm

Types of crops that show up repeatedly are essential to the regional diet.
The countries that have more resources are more wealthy, and also more hierarchical. Hierarchy and agricultural surplus go together.

The realms that have the most wealth are Sanara and Lartien. Seeing as they ahre a border, it makes sense that these two places are likely either a) at war with each other or b) on the verge of conflict.

Kwenda

The fact that Kwenda has a distinct crop region and distinct pastoral region means that it is likely Kwenda is composed of two ethnic populations. This can produce off and on internal strife as the governing system attempts to force cooperation between two peoples that see themselves as distinct. Whichever group holds authority will be instantly seen as the oppressor by the unrepresented group.

Videsse

The long coastline and minimal resources make Videsse a trade center. The easy access to the outer islands mean that this people can easily have a pirate population. Videsse does not have as strong of an internal division, and so while on the fringe of the society, it is not subject to the same internal strife.

Togan

The abundance of grass plains and herd animals means that Togan is primarily pastorilist. As such, these people might not be seen as positively by the more hierarchical realms of the east. As there are some crops along the border, and trade might be common, there might be some individuals who leave Togan. The crops are likely produced on a much smaller scale in Togan than in the eastern realms. This means that it makes sense that the people would be horticulturalists rather than agriculturalists ( meaning that the emphasis is on subsistence rather than surplus) but when surplus is produced it is likely traded.

The socio-cultural and political map of Chiadina can then be developed more closely through the eyes of a particular character.

Chiadina: The Map

2011-07-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

While it may be crude and childlike, I begin all projects with a map. I suppose I work backward. I draw the coastline, make the mountains follow the coast, the water (rivers) fall from mountain to ocean, occasionally pooling in lakes and land-bound seas. Trees follow the water. People build along bodies of water.

National boundaries follow natural features. All together you have a picture of distinct realms, with distinct geographical features.

Human society and culture is an adaptive trait formed to help us deal with environment and social pressures. So once you have a map of where people live and what resources each of your realms have, you can start to figure out who gets along and who doesn't.

The creation of who "we" are and who "they" are is intrinsic to humans. We derive some of our identity (for better or worse) from establishing what we are not. "We are capitalistic," you may've heard in the 50's, or last week-- "and thus not communist."

Same premise goes for fictional communities. The wealthy countries and those hurting for resources will be the most likely to head to war. However, the circumstances are completely different.

Then, of course, there is magic that will be tossed into the mix. I like to attach magic to a main character or strong supporting character and treat magic like a resource: it makes the magic-user political, lands them in a leadership role because they have a control of a commodity that others don't.

Of course, how important magic is in a world (how much prestige and thus authority your magical character commands) is determined by its frequency in the population, how critical it is to the commercial, governing, and political realities of the world.

You could also chose a magic that cannot cause harm. Those ones are interesting because the magical person is thrown into a whole bunch of conflicts you can't touch with more weaponized magics. So the moral, social, and psychological issues that you can explore in the character and plot development explode with potential ;-)

Tomorrow's post will be about resources and how they set up politics, culture, and such. Then on Thursday I'll take it back to the individual. after the whole world is built up, how can I reduce it to what-is-seen by my character?

New Project Just For this Site!

2011-07-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

All right, so awhile back I wanted to revamp my blog. I've gone through a load of different things I wanted to do with this page. Then, finally when I decided what I wanted to do: stress hit.

I am now working 3 part time jobs, and still writing. Unfortunately my writing is increasingly limited to non-fiction because that is what I can be paid for. Not that I'm currently making much, but it helps in the overall scheme of things. Also, even if it's product description s and web content it feels awfully good to get a few bucks for my writing.

A few months ago, before stress-out-craziness stole my life, I decided to do a fiction project for Writing Worlds. I had it all set, and then my map went vanishing into the chaotic swirl of paper piles on my desk.

So, I've rebooted. I have another project along the same lines. I am going to walk through the world-creation and then the writing. If I alternate between the two from post-to-post, forgive me. However, this will be my process, pure and simple.

Lemons and Photos

2011-06-04T22:10:00.000-07:00

On top of working to improve my food-blogging, I am also trying desperately to use up the oodles of food that somehow ended up hanging out in fridge and cupboards. It's no easy task. And as fruits and berries lend themselves easily to breads, muffins, scones and desserts, that's where my time is being spent right now. These
lemons are a good indication of the stockpiles I'm working with...

My dad's coworker had a tree, you see. I visited my parents house (mine is in the same area as theirs) and there was a massive bag of lemons. Apparently, this is what my dad thinks when i say: "I love cooking with lemons!"

So I'll be trying out a variety of recipes. The rainy weather seems to lend itself well to excessive baking. I am working on improving my photography skills and I *hope* this helps my blogging as a whole.

I suppose my current writing efforts are to improve my interaction in this medium. As taking pics of my cooking has been the most challenging aspect of food-blogging, I'm hoping that putting effort here will lead to better writing.

Odd as that sounds, but I think that learning to take pictures and choose pictures for posts is an important skill. Focusing on Modern Menu and Saucy Choppers will help me better my own abilities in this.

With my trusty little point-and-shoot and not some fancy camera, I'll do my best to take better pics...

June Starts Dreary

2011-06-01T12:10:00.000-07:00

I woke up not quite feeling well today, as if i hadn't slept well enough or long enough. Neither of which were true. I stumbled through my shower, the picture taking for today's blog posts and am slowly forcing the coffee down. I hate slow mornings, they make me feel lazy, even when it is nothing I can fight.

The weather, too, on this the 1st of June 2011..is very odd. Thunderstorms have descended. Winter still has Northern California in its grasp. But it should be getting on towards summer. The weather has been so odd...

Could my feeling sleepy and unwell be related to this weather? Do we react when the weather changes? Can we use this in writing?

Sounds farfetched...? But what if sunny weather gives one character energy, and makes another sleepy? Can this be used to influence actions, conversation, while also weaving in details about the environment? If the weather is odd, how the character reacts to the weather may well give us 1) insight to character, 2) insight to world, 3) time reference (something I generally have trouble including) and 4) Plot development (if the weather is a sign of something gone wrong, magically or other).

What do you think? Can you write a scene like this?

Writing What I Know

2011-05-31T10:28:00.000-07:00

I used to have a problem with the phrase, "Write what you know," because many of the individuals who taught this ideology placed heavy emphasis on experiential learning. Only, not all of us "learn" that way, or go about life that way. I have to get my mind wrapped around a concept or some level of understanding before I can actually "know it." The result is, sometimes, that my "knowledge" isn't easily quantifiable, not even by myself.

Sure, when I plunge into something I start to see, through application of knowledge what "I know," --and what I don't--but all in all, there is very little in my life that I have learned by doing.

Cooking and Dress-up, are kinda the stuff I learned by doing.

Fantasy writing *could* fall in that category, mainly because I've wrestled with the proper story elements for so long and acquired increased understanding through analysis, that it has finally planted me on the right track. That said, those experiential-valuing instructors often indicated that writing fantasy was pure imagination. So perhaps by not *exactly* placing my fiction in the category of "what i know" I am validating them...

Whatever.

I am trying to write on topics I "know" to diversify what I *do* write. I want to be able to make a living as a writer (eventually) and that means writing topics (and exploring topics) which I know somewhat about and wish to explore more deeply. So I am!

I am trying to write recipes, and put all my knowledge of economical cooking into words. I am going to chart my progress learning to sew...

Just... on other blogs. But keeping prolific, while I can, and keeping focused--these are important. And so...I am :)

Planning. Drafting. Doing.

2011-05-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

The hardest part of writing is writing. I never believed this when I was a kid and not even a surgeon was likely to remove a pen from my fingers. However, it seems to me that the main issue with getting to the point of writing has been (for me) the assumption that i can do it at any time.

I mean, if I can write literally anytime, just sit down and go for it...why should I choose this very minute? When the laundry is overflowing? If the dishes are climbing out of the sink, it isn't a good time for writing, right? When a high school friend calls me on a Friday night to say: "Hey, I'm gonna be in town this weekend, you free?" the reaction comes all too easily: "Of course!" and writing is put on hold for a morning, which ends up including the afternoon and then I'd return home to dishes and laundry.

The "not right now" turns into "not today," and can become, "oh...wait, what have I done this week?" all too easily.

Life intrudes, and not until the grumpiness sets in, and stress descends all too easily about things that really shouldn't inspire any level of frustration...not till then do I realize just how essential it is to write Now. For myself, my mood, and my life.

So I get caught up in the planning, when I'm out in the world. Walking down the street, or taking the train into town. My characters make themselves known in my mind when I'm not, that moment, able to write. It's their vengeance, I suppose.

I try to channel the thoughts into notebooks. I plan the world, the story, try out snippets of scenes and short stories. Bits of writing float about, unfinished, to collect on a messy floor.

But that chair. To sit and to write, to focus on this moment...sometimes it takes more will, more insight into self than I have anymore. Sometimes, I am caught up in so many plans, so many obligations, that sometimes keeping the simple pledges that I made to myself get set aside for longer than I mean to.

So here is to simplifying life, to cutting down and back on my obligations. Here's to renewing my commitment to myself, my writing--and my chair.

The Blog Reboot

2011-05-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

I think I got a little lost in the trees. There are times that I see something that I want to do and I go after it, only to lose myself along the way. I guess I have a tendency towards obsession, and whenever I reexamine the road to which I have pledged myself, it gets larger. I'm just not good at paring down.

Most recently this has happened with SWS. In the past it happened with my novel--which is now requiring a ground-up rewrite because of just how unwieldy it became (see? stubbornness--I'm going to completely re imagine everything rather than shelf the thing). But, when I step away and kind of look at the whole thing through a new set of glasses, I find the essence of the thing--of me--enmeshed in the center (because, you see, the two are a bit allegorical).

Perhaps this is a major personality flaw. I mean--I also have a cluttered home.

I have a hard time paring down my stuff, my life, my novel, my non-profit scheme....

Geez...I *do* seem to over complicate things. So I spent the night cleaning, I picked more minimalistic blog templates, and I am going to try to prioritize the things I need to reach my goals, those that are personal to myself and those I share with the tall guy standing next to me in the picture above.

Character & Environment, in Honor of Earth Day

2011-04-22T14:14:00.000-07:00

Myths and Legends abound with fears and stories of natural disasters. Humans have this ability to shove the natural world away, and forget it's out there. if it's too rainy, or too windy, or too hot, or too--whatever, we complain. As if the weather the world were constructed for our inconvenience.

But our constructs--like the fence in my yard--are alterations in a terrain that once belonged to the natural world. Our human constructions are...artificial...existing to validate our sense of self, society, world and so forth.

When creating fantastical societies, it's easy to create a terrain which your characters pass over. Sometimes weather is used to reflect emotion, plot tension, accent a scene with an appropriate ambiance. But the natural world can also be personified. Often gods in ancient myths are associated with natural features--mountains, lakes, the ocean.

In order to bring your environment and thus the setting of your world alive, imbue the environment with meaning in your characters' eyes. Populate it with myth that reflect an understanding of niche and ecosystem. Do not assume that because we dress up these concepts with scientific terms that people prior to industrialization lacked an understanding of them. They had their own way of interpreting the same information, and noting the relationships between animals, plants and natural features.

And in urban environments, have the natural world encroach. Wild turkeys wondered through my yard a few times this past winter. They came in from the river and based on Facebook statuses had been seen as far as midtown.

To think that our urban lives are untouched by wilderness is inaccurate. We just don't like to see it. And yet, seeing a particular bird overhead, perched in a tree outside a window, or a nuisance in the yard can place your city geographically, reflect your characters' biases, and provide details that make setting pop.

5 Reasons to Use Short Story Writing when Prewriting

2011-04-20T13:58:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been focused on a self-imposed short story writing frenzy. So here are some of my thoughts on why short story writing is helpful.

1) World Building

In Fantasy writing especially, but also in any piece of fiction, the rules of “the world” dictate much about your characters’ actions. For fantasy, this can mean writing short stories that revolve around mytho-historic characters who may never appear in your Big Project. But knowing what forces turned a person into a myth, and more, can tell you a lot about the world in which your characters live. The more gray, the more complex your world, the more your characters will grow to reflect the society that shaped them. This makes the whole of your Big Project that more real and believable.

For literary fiction, world building takes on a different meaning. Each character has a different set of expectations of the world around d them. Go into the heads of minor charcter’s in the Big Project’s timeline, or even in the past. Use short stories in this manner to construct the relationships between your subset (family, community/etc) and their larger society. The placement of individual into the context of family, sub-culture, regional identity and national identity can begin to grant an understanding of the social norms for your charcter and how these things might not mesh with the general moral and cultural code of the larger society. Thus, you begin to create the shape of the world your character lives in.

2) Character Building

Another method is going into your charcters’ past and exploring the years and people in your Main Character’s life before the start of the story. This technique lets you explore the points in Main Character’s life that lead to his/her greatest strengths and weaknesses. Know where you Main Character’s insecurities stem from and why. Sometimes, knowing g the root of the character flaws will present you with the answer to how the Main Character can/should overcome the flaws over the course of the Big Project.

Also, these flaws can be cultural adaptive. Like a kid who’s life teaches him to distrust authority might survive longer in particular socio-cultural environments, but that same adaptive behavior might lead him to become a criminal when he’s an adult. Though he might not be a bad person despite it all, just a product of circumstances that he needs to leave behind.

3) Plotting

Short Story plots are at a basic level quite simple. But mastery of the short story plot presents the gift of knowing how to write on multiple levels at the same time. Knowing how to craft a plot that hits more than one level is the key to misdirection in the Big Project. Misdirection is what allows you to surprise Reader with plot twists. Subtlety requires not only careful wording, but good plotting as well.

Don’t be fooled by the basic short story arc. While that may have been hammered into you in academic settings, the structure of a short story is perhaps hardest to write because of its simplicity. Learning how to pare down to the basics but avoid predictability, demands practice and skill. Writing many short stories, and completing them all, will help you know how to do this well.

4) Word, Sentence & Paragraph: Choice and Order

Short stories must be succinct. It is the nature of the beast. Words cannot be used to fluff the story. Sentence order and paragraph order build the rhythm of your story, and are signs of character, world, and plot. When writing a short story all of your structural crutches are condensed and become as noticeable as a glow stick at night, in a ghost town.

So you can see them better in a short story, which means that you can deal with them more directly. And while they might blend into you Big Project—the glow stick at the rave—it doesn’t mean you should keep it (the color might be horrendous, no matter the context). The process of purging your structural crutches allows you to develop a deeper understanding of story-structure. You begin to take note of the differences between how you think your story *should* be received, and how it really *is* received. Oftentimes this boils down to learning the interplay of word choice, senatnce structure and paragraph arrangement.

Together, well crafted with a plot and a gently portrayed character, you have an outstanding short story.

5) Description

You can’t wax poetic in a short story. This goes a bit with #4, but description is often treated as a different category. Some rough drafts I’ve read seem to indicate that their authors think it’s ok to approach a short story in one of the following manners:

• “Ok, I need to paint a picture first.”

• “Oo, you haven’t forgotten where we were? Right? Let me add a sentence of pure description *here* to be certain.”

• “The character, wait! You don’t have an image? Let’s take a break so I can tell you how he/she looks.”

They don’t work. Not one of them. Not because Reader is opposed to seeing anything you want to paint, but because all of these approaches lead to frivolous words. The author that needs to take time out of the story to describe a setting or character is prone to providing panoramas to their viewers. The eye takes in more than it can process, yes? So when we create a panorama and then squeeze into a tiny corner, we are not presenting the story in a manner Reader would experience it if Reader were really inside the story. Rather, we are presenting a short story like a movie. The advantage that a story has over a movie is the ability to put the reader into the action; feel what the characters feel, see what the characters see. Reader does not need to see *more* than what Main Character sees, especially not in a short story. But in real life we don’t catch every detail when posed with a panorama, so why should Reader in a short story?
Description woven into story, character, plot, etc—is a word here and there. It is carefully crafted to create an image in Reader’s mind without taking away from the movement of the story. What we see is within the3 context of our perception of importance. So too is it for the Main Character. If the Main Character is properly leading the story, Reader should have a similar experience.
This is one of those *crutches* that a Big Project swallows. Short stories, on the other hand, make purple prose insanely noticeable. We’re an increasingly visual society, so this crutch is likely only going to become more prevalent. But Readers also seek more “meat’ than ever, better story and characters. So the skilled author presents both simultaneously (we are also a society of multi-taskers).

In a World where the Print Industry Falters

2011-04-05T22:40:00.000-07:00

--A friend dressing up for last year's Horror Movie Night, put on by SWS.

Barnes & Noble. Borders. Now, there are big names migrating to self-publishing...what is this world we have wandered into? Questions of how much quality writing will exist in the future abound. Pessimistic comments float through web, with only some positive statements to punctuate the fear and voice an alternative answer.

We're all trying to find our way, wondering what the reordering of the industry will mean for our careers. Especially for those of us teetering on the verge of sending out a finished novel -- we can't be certain what the rules will be in the next two to three years. We can't expect the knowledge we've gained over the past decade to apply anymore.

It feels an awful lot like reaching into a full bathtub for a bar of soap. Every time I structure a plan, an understanding, some big news hits, and--Bam! It's like soap slipping through my fingers...

So I am putting together SWS. I've mentioned it a lot, but it's eaten up a great deal of my time. We will be offering classes locally, and hopefully--when we have the funds--in virtual space.

The classes will not only teach writing. They will also present editing, web-research and multimedia skills. I have been shocked how many know so little about basic programs. Further, schools are not offering training in the cloud--what's out there and how do you use it?

The Internet offers so much information for writers to sort through that often, finding what you really want--and knowing that you have found it--takes more critical research than (appears through my experience) to be generally assumed. I have helped numerous students at community college to send emails, save to usb and other simple internet tasks. I have sat with young writers who dismantle the significance of technology in their lives, and glorify computer illiteracy as if an era prior to the Information Age was a Golden Period to be emulated.

I honestly feel that that tract is futile. Intentionally preventing yourself from learning technology because you want to hold onto nostalgia that belonged to a generation before your own, seems disadvantageous to social adaptation.

Yet, this reaction to technology is due to the perceived reduction of social interaction. Rather than integrating technology into daily life in a way that fosters connections, there is resistance to learning how to use the computer to interact. but writing itself is communication, interaction. And for writers to adapt, they must find a way to integrate technology not only into their career, but into those interactions that foster career.

I know, perhaps you are thinking blogging.

But I am thinking of why I am building a non-profit. A setting with specialized instruction and exploration of writing-related knowledge to fuse the real life and the virtual. An organization that offers real-life connections and classes in technology, writing, etc.

Are there others institutions that provide this? Not in my city. Academic discourse only goes so far.

The picture above is from a somewhat successful fundraiser we held last year, a friend and colleague of mine. The participants elected to dress up for the horror movie night, and made a fun experience out of a small fundraiser. To keep afloat, our organization must do many more of these events. But you could say that the fascination with bygone eras and the romanticizing of medieval dress go hand in hand.

Though I am guilty of enjoying costumes myself, and so perhaps that makes me hypocritical.

(Re)Building Lara with Polyvore

2011-04-01T17:29:00.000-07:00

I'm going to try this one out for a week! We'll see how well I like it :D

Meanwhile, I have been distracted by Lookbook and Polyvore...

It can be fun to create characters' outfits on Polyvore. Mind, all the branding makes these items far more expensive than my High School student characters in Wished Awry would actually wear...but the style is very Lara.

Lara by dreamca01 featuring vintage style tees

How does this help build a character?

I am not the best at description. I barrel into fight scenes, I draw conversations on longer than they need to be--and have discovered that I use these devices as a crutch.

So now that i am sitting on a complete rough draft of this Urban (Ya?) Fantasy, I am back tracking. I am fleshing out the characters (again) because now that the draft is complete, they've had their say--and changed my plans. So back to the drawing board! Then to make certain the puzzle pieces fit :)

Oh, and btw--I think I'll try a few new templates, so feel free to comment and leave your votes!

So I failed...

2011-03-25T23:50:00.000-07:00

Meant to be good this year...and organized.

I got a job...not much, just tutoring. Sylvanopolis Writers' Society has progressed towards nonprofit status, but the work involved has taken my attention away from blogging.

I seriously miss it! I will return soon...this is me checking in.
I have found a new template! Yay! now for remembering how I did this before >.<

See you soon!

Promise :)

Wednesday World Building!

2011-02-09T17:24:00.000-08:00

I'll add a picture later :P

My story building is partially affected by High School History teacher who was convinced that geography affected history. I tended to like this concept.

All of my stories start as maps. My knowledge of geography is rudimentary...

Mountains follow faults, which may/may not be near a continental shelf...some distance from shoreline. Too many mountains produce desert on the opposite side do to the rain shadow effect. There is more percipitation at higher altitudes which lead to the formation of rivers. Where water pools, lakes can be found. Trees follow water. Rivers dump into ocean.

And natural barriers (mountains, rivers and forests) produce national boundaries.

Technique Tuesday: Methodology

2011-02-08T12:01:00.000-08:00

So I fussed with templates yesterday, worked and went to class. And didn't post :( Sorry! As you can see--no change yet. It probably won't happen till Thursday. And then Thursday, Friday, and next week, I might try out a few different looks--so input would be helpful! I'm having such a hard time making up my mind :(

Anyhow! Tuesdays will be dedicated to the the hows and whys of technique--sentence, structure, word choice, because I believe that finding a conscious voice is the discovery of your own unique methodology.

What do I mean?

Voice is how you structure your style. But style is not an unconscious thing, it is honed through craft. Which, generally, requires years of revising and adjusting.

Like anything in our lives, we have to know why we write as we do. What do we consider affective and why? I want to exploit the thought processes that lead to the common "young writer" issues with sentence structure, plot and character composition by determining how we confuse poor writing for good writing and why.

Then through rethinking, re-approaching and rewriting we can fix drafts without wholly abandoning them. But then, I'm stubborn, and my methodology will likely be apparent in these posts.

My order:

Write--have reader/writer group examine the "big stuff" plot, character, etc...
Make changes when draft is complete and has sat for a month.
Take adjusted version to critique group for more thorough analysis, and let the critiques sit till 2nd draft is complete.
Let 2nd draft sit for a month-ish, and then apply adjustments identified by critique group members.
Send 3rd draft to final readers, who look for grammar, punctuation, etc. Fix that stuff last, and prepare to submit!

My methodology allows me to process what my critique group says into a manageable form. Some critiques are so detailed, I find it hard to know where to start implementing the changes. But I don't want to use everything. So concentrating big-to-small issues will help me know what I'm doing.

That will be the structure of these entries, too. I will start with plot, character, setting, and so forth then work down to sentence structure and word choice.

It might be a little too much of an insight to my thoughts :P And that *could* be scary, but let's go with it!

On the Quest for a Blog-Makeover

2011-02-05T22:42:00.000-08:00

A few months back, I started to realize that I wanted a new look for this blog. I also want to tackle things a little more regularly...and consistently. However the quest seemed to take up my blogging time...so I'm posting even though I do not have the perfect new template installed.

What's gonna be new:

I am going to have daily posts on the following topics:

Media Mondays
Technique Tuesdays
Wednesday World Building
Theme Thursdays
Fiction Fridays

On Mondays I'll talk television, movies, books, etc.

Tuesday and Wednesday are pretty self-explanatory.

Thursday's themes will deal with academic ideas, and how to implement them consciously, or recognize them in your writing or in books you are reading. The first I'm going to address is Anthropology because i know it best :P Not to sat that a BA makes me an expert--far from it, but i am more familiar with Anthropological discourse than--oh, say--Philosophy or Psychology.

Fiction Fridays--fiction that will be blog only, based on the world that I am developing on Wednesdays.

So I hope to get the new template set up tomorrow :P

Here goes!

You Tube: Bradbury, King & Keillor

2010-12-09T11:39:00.000-08:00

I've been writing my latest WIP (so close to the end!) and writing business plans, bylaws and what not, trying to get SWS in order :(

But I took a minute to seek inspiration on youtube. Here's a few videos I found...

Bradbury's work I love, King I admire, and Keillor's radio show is something i grew up with :)

Sylvanopolis Writers' Society.

2010-12-04T14:31:00.000-08:00

I wanted to take a minute to discuss the organization I am building and why.

My grandpa (apparently) knew I'd be a writer when I was 8. I knew at 11. I have sought to write and hone my craft for the past 16 years. But there were times in high school and college, especially, where the resources to get where I wanted to go took as much time to research as any school work. Naturally, this meant less time to actually write.

But writing, and sustaining writing itself...that is essential.

So what if there was a magical place that had all the info you needed in a central location? Libraries, right?

Okay, so Roseville Library is awesome. They've been hosting some amazing workshops and events. But Roseville...is a suburb...

What about down here? In the city of Sacramento? The capitol of the state that has hollywood? the Silicon Valley? Honestly, all the writers seem to vacate the area for the Bay. But that leaves kids in Sacramento and the surrounding area, with little literary enrichment. Not to mention writers-with-day-jobs in the region!

Like I said, Roseville Library is doing some awesome things here. So is the Capitol City Young Writers program.

But again, I feel that I comprise a group currently being neglected. Both of these programs are located in upper middle class to wealthier locations in the overall Sacramento Area map. What about those of us from truly middle class backgrounds? It is hard for writers to find...well...other writers...in this city. Not to mention changing behavior patterns as we become increasingly internet dependent.

In fact, half of my support from other writers here and on facebook is with writers I've never met face to face. But there is something strangely motivating and encouraging about building connections that way...

So when I found myself developing a network of critique groups, I didn't want to stop there. I want to help foster a central location where writers can find:

1) Resources to help them learn what they need about craft
2) Resources that help them progress toward publishing
3) Resources that help them promote their work immediately prior to & post publication
4) Local events where they can meet other writers
5) Local publications that help them develop a publishing repetoire (like writing articles for newsletters for the organization. Fostering a sharing of knowledge beyond the critique groups)

--But I don't want the whole thing to be IRL. I mean, that isn't applicable to how we experience life anymore. Life is a hybrid of Virtual and IRL (In Real Life) experiences. So the organization has to generate the same sort of dual existence, and it needs an infrastructure to do this.

--I am applying for non-profit status so that a Board and Administration can set up an educationally-foocused public benefit corporation to provide a centralized location IRL and Online for writers to come to.

--Yes, I know there are organizations currently in existence. Many, like SFWA require you publish a book first, prior to registering. Some are purely virtual. But no matter how internet dependent we become, we are not going to neglect the real-life need to connect with others. So we will reach out to existing writing groups as well as individual writers. We want to help them find places to come to for connection, education, and involvement on both planes. That is something I feel has been missing.

--I will be updating the website shortly. I will include the whole plan there. Please, visit next week when all is up and ready for viewing :D

Remembering What I Once Understood

2010-12-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

When I was 13, I decided to spend a whole year world building. Well, all right, I didn't "decide" I just sorta ended up coming up with everything...I have always believed in Cause and Affect. I have always been inquisitive. So the combination resulted in Don-Yin.

Through high school, I tried to write a rough draft. But I was torn in too many directions! The world(s) I had built were too complicated and I was never satisfied with what I was producing. So I never completed a draft.

Then when I was 17, I decided I would. I would put nose to the grind stone and just do it. And I did. It was bad. After revising, rewriting, editing... I shelved it. I finished 3 more rough drafts, each full length manuscripts, before I finally transferred to a University. Life hit..

And with Nanowrimo, I remember... really remember...a few things.

1) I am obsessive when in a writing phase.
2) If anything distracts me, my distraction becomes a new obsession
3) I am fully capable of placing my butt on the couch and writing
4) I don't believe I'm fully capable of placing my butt on the couch and writing
5) I am my own worst enemy
6) I gotta ignore my inner skeptic, and just DO IT
7) A boyfriend who nags me to complete self-set goals is a blessing I should never take for granted.
8) I need people around me who encourage me and believe in me, because sometimes believing in myself seems harder than it should be.
9) I'm lucky to have people around me who encourage, pester, and believe in me.
10)I think, even if I still have to complete my project, Nanowrimo was the perfect cure to my off-and-on dry spell.

Blaming Life is wrong. It is my decision to do or not. It is my decision to manage my time, or let it slip from me. It is my responsibility to listen to the advice I give myself. After all, I set the goals and tell myself what to do, because once upon a time when I was a bit more brash I discovered these truths. I was stubborn and perhaps not as knowledgeable about how to build characters and plot, or pull together a story. But I knew how to force myself to achieve self-ascribed goals.

Nanowrimo reminded me of what I once understood.

Derailed...Kinda Sorta

2010-11-06T09:58:00.000-07:00

I love outlines. I think...I set everything up, I know the characters, and then...voila! I'll know how it goes.

But, it never happens that way. I just reached chapter 5 for my NaNoWriMo project. The characters started subverting my carefully set plans two chapters ago. I think they're laughing at me... somewhere... thinking "Su-cker!"

I certainly feel like it. The story will still reach the climax I anticipated...but not under the same conditions I'd expected. And for the next two to three chapters I have no idea what's about to happen.

But I know where it's headed. So there's that.

Back to work :P

NaNoWriMo

2010-10-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

I did it. I signed up. I have been shifting back and forth between my epic fantasy and urban fantasy...with little progress on either. But because the latter has a simpler plot, I'm choosing it for my NaNoWriMo project.

No More False Starts

I've seriously had plenty of these in the last year. but over the course of the past week, I've begun gearing up. After all, in order to make a novel-in-a-month possible, there's a lot of prep work to do. Because I've chosen something I've been kicking around, I have relatively less world building than normal.

What I'm Doing Differently

I generally spend time thinking of characters. I go through false starts, world-building short stories that end up in various of incompletion, but advance my knowledge of world/characters and the many players in the plot.

Right now, I'm composing written character outlines/backgrounds. Usually this bit evolves with the writing process. But in attacking a novel in a month, I have to have all my cards out. If feels like I'm composing a cheat sheet. When the whole novel comes together over the next few weeks, it'll be more akin to arranging puzzle pieces than my usual creative flow. Feels a lot more practical, I'll give it that :P

If you want to see the character cheat sheets, I can post them :) Let me know if you're curious.

Who else is doing NaNoWriMo? If so...how is the novel prep process for the event different from your usual prep experience?

Fantasy Societies and Our Modern World View

2010-10-22T09:26:00.000-07:00

Now that I can see again, and read without eye-strain headaches I'm plunging back into reading.

A month ago I had a post about my guy reading a series that I read about 13/14 years ago. And I've currently been reading Masques by Patricia Briggs. Which is awesome, because I have followed Briggs since her second novel came out. But I never could find the first :P so I was excited about the re-release.

But reading this novel and talking to my guy about his reading material has me thinking about the changes in depictions of society and how that (may) represent a shifting world view.

How so?

The Sword and Sorcery books of the 90's depicted watered-down quests, magical implements, and political intrigue. When characters traveled, they passed through any number of realms with various peoples. Think about Garion, from David Eddings' wonderful High Fantasy series The Belgariad and the Mallorean. Or Mercedes Lackey's uber-popular Valdemar books.

Garion starts out a farm boy, is hauled around by his magically gifted family from one country to another. The only time they encounter non-native people in any one realm these people are a) the enemy or b) allies looking for the wayward wizard and his awkward-but-special nephew.

While the Valdemar books carry a little more social complexity (Thalia and the Queen's Arrows Trilogy) depicts class relations, and a backwoods society that is of Valdemar, but estranged--Thalia still has to shed that connection to become a Herald of Valdemar. Karal, the outsider-who-gets-a-Companion in the Mage Storm Trilogy, is the closest the series walks toward acknowledging socio-cultural identities unrelated to national ones.

Now, I loved these books, but that quality never felt real. People don't acknowledge borders. I mean, really...there are American military bases everywhere except well, North Korea. So there are Americans working and living abroad. There are Mexican people, and Canadians, with work visas. The United States "owns" Guam and Costa Rica, so people living in those places are technically American and speak English + Spanish (and one of the few different languages spoken in Guam, if I recall correctly).

Nor is this merely because of the world we live in. Look at history.

Rome conquered Europe. The descendants of the kings who payed the Romans tithes and were part of the empire, ended up producing Charlemagne. The Carolingian Renaissance produced the early medieval artistry ...and the Holy Roman Empire. All of Europe was Christiandom, and Rome. There was such a difference of opinion about this that the Roman Pope and Eastern Patriarch ex-communicated each other (thank you Art History!:P ) but this means that all of Europe united under Charlemagne considered themselves Roman. (I have read a lot on this subject, an am forgetting the exact source but I *think* it is from Lyon's "The Origin of the Middle Ages," granted, this book is from Norton's Historical Controversies series)

The Renaissance's universal prestige of all things Greco-Roman conveyed a different perspective on the same inherited Roman-ness. That is to say, all of the European Realms, despite internal feuding, saw themselves as more similar than different. The exotic Africans and Orientals from Turkey--that was different. That was "not Christan." While ideology defined cultural connection, this doesn't mean all of Europe was "the same." Clearly different colloquial languages were spoken, even if the educated and the priests and monks/nuns all spoke Latin. There were different "takes" on art and architecture, on dress, etc. There was variation. Not to mention even smaller ethnic groups: Bretons, Basque, Jews, "gypsies," and so forth. There were Vikings in Ireland. There were the Manx, the Picts, the Scots, the Welsh--and that was on one tiny Island chain, that slowly became modern Brittain, centered in England where the invading-Angles had settled in the early Medieval period.

When the nation state idea emerged post-Renaissance, it was based on a different organizational system. One that failed to account for variety in culture, or our human unwillingness to maintain the imaginary-borders we continually create.

The 1990's saw the nation-state ideology begin to break down in the United States. With the dissolution of the USSR, the US stood as the lone super power. And, our nation, like it always does, responds to the situation--good or bad--by throwing money at it. Back then, we had lots of money.

And that was when the warlords-ethnic and ideological minorities from diverse backgrounds, which we had armed against the USSR in our desperation to stem the Red Tide-turned on us. Stateless peoples.

Movies of the 90's and now still depict "terrorists" as the bad guys. People without borders, who can go anywhere, and often have access to old Soviet tech.

Meanwhile, the American school system also saw an influx of "minorities." So any white girl, like myself, attending an inner city school, was a minority. A real minority. In my 7th grade history and language arts class, I was one of 5 white kids. Here, the teacher spoke of American society and white society as synonymous, but from where I sat I was surrounded by representation of the ethnic communities my great-and-powerful Franco-German-Anglo-Saxon ancestors royally screwed. And in our multicultural classroom, we got to learn about all the amazing African, Asian, American, and Middle Eastern societies...Europe we never got to...

To me going forward, America was a diverse tapestry of subcultures influenced by a breathtaking array of ethnic inheritances. One national identity just didn't make sense.

But I loved my fantasy books. I thought, "That's what it would've been like in the past." But studying history independently, and pursuing anthropology in college taught me that the world was never that simple.

I think the love of vampires, werewolves, fae and the like in modern urban fantasy fill this change in our world view. They are the "others" next door, but also our family, our dearest friends, our enemies and our lovers. The magically diverse world can give us an exaggerated playground for a discussion of modern identity construction and differentiation. We are like these Others and we are not. All at once. The recurring questions in many of these novels (some of which I am greatly enjoying)is whether or not we can live with these recently-outed others.

Can we handle the global society that has led us to find so many friends--even fictitious family--with dramatically different religious/economic/cultural and sexual orientations than our selves?

I like to think so. But whatever the case, I think these are some of the issues reflected in modern literature. Subconsciously, of course :P

What are your thoughts?

Writing Life

2010-10-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure where I picked up the phrase "writing life," but it fit so well, I thought it was self-explanitory :( And it just slid into my vocabulary.

I recently released a survey, in order to see what SWS could do better. I have been doing my best to devise the best way to create a writing community in my city...and that has led me to looking at establishing a non-profit. The survey is intended (in part) to assist me in identifying what services will be most helpful to writers.

So I started out by asking what people need for their "Writing Life." And I learned the term was not nearly as obvious as I thought...

So here's my definition and rationale for the term...

We each need different things to continue writing. Life likes to toss obstacles in our way. But through seeking the balance that fuels our writing, improvement, inspiration (as much as I dislike that word) we find a way to continue.

Because we writers NEED to. No choice in the matter.
We might have multiple creative outlets....but in the end, life revolves around story, character, and plot.

I can't write regularly when depressed. But I also can't stay away from books or writing without somehow triggering depression. So in the end, I return to the story, to writing, and on a good day progress can make me forget for a few hours that I have no day job, no income.

But the day job, I've found, is essential to my writing life. Life experience and writing feed each other. It't like....

...in an ideal world both recycling and life and writing will feed themselves back and forth forever. Likewise, we need particular things to keep writing.

Precisely like Virginia Wolf said in "A Room of One's Own." Which, by the way, was a book I seriously loved, appreciated and identified with. The idea that women need space, a modicum of wealth in order to write, that we need to be comfortable and not have other pressers that interfere with our creating...that's me. Maybe some people can write to escape the world, and I can certainly read to escape the world, but as I've gotten older it certainly has felt harder to escape.

A sentiment that makes me feel I need to tend my writing life all the more. I have to make time for writing now, not decide to write on an inspired whim. I need to be more pragmatic in my non-writing-life, but not permit that to taint my imagination, fantasy, or hamper my attitudes toward my work. Writing must still maintain priority, even if it must share with other concerns.

So Writing Life, in a nutshell, is how we incorporate writing into our life. The phrase indicates the place writing holds in our daily existence, but to be separated from our "scholastic/academic life" or "working life" or "family life" or "social life." While these spheres may overlap, and may feed each other, but their requirements are as different as the watering needs of a redwood and a cactus.

What fuels your writing life? What other "lives" or spheres have the greatest impact on your writing?

Time, It's On my Side--Not!

2010-10-12T15:47:00.000-07:00

If I were to personify life, it would be as a greedy old man trying to devise new ways to hinder and distract. I can hear evil chuckling right now.

T.V. shows, friends and family, responsibilities that stack one atop the other. Squeezing in time for myself to read and write can be a struggle.

Off goes the phone. The laptop firmly closed and tucked away in a bag. No more Pandora. Don't reach out to me, don't see me--just let me slide into invisibility for a minute, to catch my breath. There.

I've got my new glasses, so I'm returning to reading before bed. I write in the afternoon, before cooking dinner. I have to plot my time, my days, around responsibilities and when I have an hour or two to sit alone, and pound out words on the keyboard--I take it.

But I try to keep those times regular. Anticipated. Scheduled.

That can be difficult. People are unpredictable factors.

Difficult isn't impossible. It makes the journey more worth it.

With organization and a little time management everything falls into place...
And then, too, I have to forgive myself when everything doesn't go according to plan. There are days, weeks, moths, years--even--where allowing wiggle room is essential. :D

I will keep on going! I will improve each time. Just some hard work. Perseverance. But I did that with college right? Juggling work and school and writing? So I can do it now.

It's all about the journey :D

What Should Fantasy Characters Eat?

2010-10-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

A friend asked after reading my Blogfeast entry, "How do you decide what your characters should eat?" This friend mentioned that she thought the food was particularly detailed, so how did I come up with it? At the risk of lapsing into an anthropological rant...

Food is important to all societies. and in all cultures. Love of food, humor, and music seem to be some of the few human universals. But all of these are informed by culture, experience, etc. So for me to decide what some characters eat versus other characters I have to rely on world building.

The first questions:

A) where does this ethnic group originate?
B) What is the weather like there?
C) What makes sense as the "common" species?
D) Could there be any religious prescriptions about food that would make sense to the culture?

Next questions?

A) What Earth societies are geographically comparative?
B) What Earth societies am I drawing on for influence?
C) What is the socio-economic standing of my character?
D) What prestige within his/her group does my character receive?
E) What prestige within the larger society does my character receive?
F) What makes sense for individual relationship to food?

How does this play out in the story?

We identify food with home. So when characters are taken outside of the familiar, the little things that mean "home" gain a lot more importance. Add in societies that ritualize meals (my Maldians), individual characters' personality and you have a recipe for tension, world building, character development, and plot advancement.

There is more that goes into food-rituals than just what's on the plate.

Political games are particularly evident over meals.
How a character eats can reveal much of his/her identity, not only to the reader, but to the other characters attending the meal.
Also, the level of ritual speaks much for social status and the importance of the event. That means--how do your characters dress for the meal? Chara themselves? What sort of discussion transpires over eating (this could communicate gender roles, familial connections, social organization, wealth, prestige in community, what one has to do to earn respect--which communicates cultural value systems that can inform plot).

Then, to bring in reader emotion, think about prestige of food items in our own society.
Who drinks tea?
Coffee?
Wine?
Beer or Ale?
Hard liquor?
Meats?
Veggies?

What about meals served in courses?
how much food is available?

For Tati, who grew up an ethnic Maldian in the Meiseon realm, food rituals make sense because her people are the land's farmers. Maldians value food because they know the hard work it takes to get it on the table (so to speak) and because it is the time in which the family gathers, no one working. So it is doubly significant to a society that is trying to hide the fact they have retained memory of their once-noble lineages. Tati, being descended from a family that once ruled the Maldians is allotted more prestige in her agrarian society, and thus has had more access to food than others in the community. She just doesn't realize it. That, and her mother's reputation/skill at cooking inform her attitude about food and culinary education :P Which works for the character because it represents half of her internal conflict. Balance between her two "sides" is her personal, internal goal. The outward representation of her struggle influences the plot. As does the prestige/expectations her society places on her, and the limitations caused by being a member of a marginalized ethnic group with abilities the Meiseons should be afraid of...

So I need to be detailed with food whenever Tati is around because of the importance she imbues in it.

Does this translate to other pieces?

Yes, but it will be dealt with differently. In Kordic (where Silver Mask is currently taking place) food marks socio-economic status. The Rextians are the overlooked ethnic group, and Kyr's importing of Rextian tea and herbs for Gellayna permits her to have a sense of home when living outside her community. It says a lot about Kyr, who is a lord in a xenophobic Empire, and it gives the smugglers a reason to ferry goods to his castle...allowing their network to flourish and carry news of the Empire, and assist Kyr in planning a rebellion. So food, trade, and the like plays a different role in this piece, but no less important.

Europe conquered the world for resources after all. The settlement of the Americas was a result of seeking South Asian spices...so I think food, identity, socio-economic and cultural politics is informed (in part) by food. So...it's important to the whole world-building effort and should be integrated into stories with care.

What a Weekend

2010-10-06T19:25:00.000-07:00

Sorry all! I know I failed to come through with a few blogfests. I was super excited that I would have internet at the Nevada County Fairgrounds that I planned to blog from the festival (or, more precisely, the tent) instead, after the concerts closed on the last tap of shoe and stroke of the bow...well, my laptop was co-opted for the guy's homework assignment. And frankly, academics have to come first. It's really, really essential that we both have degrees...

So My Guy and I piled into a rented car, loaded down with camping gear and food. We do this every year. My first year at this festival was 13 years ago. I've missed 2 festivals, mostly due to the fact that when in High School I dragged the parents along rather than the reverse. This was the 4th festival My Guy and I attended. (Naturally, he drove :P Which he does sometimes...)

The KVMR Celtic Festival is a two day festival put on by semi-local radio station. That is, KVMR can be caught on Sactown airwaves on calm nights in the summertime before overlapping stations squeeze them out. The station comes from Nevada City, California which is in the Sierra Nevada foothills. All that Gold Rush history :D

The drive is 40-minutes-to-an-hour, provided you don't get lost in picturesque Auburn. Which we didn't. This year. Thank you, Google Navigation!

So it's two days with a splash of RenFaire:

From 2010-10-02

Bagpipes:

Music Everywhere:

And some shopping:

Excuses to dress up:

Or be silly

and play with the merchandise.

Then off to watch more concerts:

And I went all out prepping food...

So it was an awesome experience. As always. Rejuvenating.

I always feel better able to tackle my projects after the weekend. Though I've been pretty exhausted this week...attended an Irish dancing workshop at the festival and I am sooo outta shape :(

Do you have any vacations that refocus you? An annual tradition that never fails to inspire you?

(Band was Leahy. Also saw The Elders who are AWESOME btw. Niamh Parson and John Doyle and Alastair Fraiser w/ Natalie Haas. Bagpipes were courtesy the White Hackle Band.)

New Glasses!

2010-09-28T10:05:00.000-07:00

I know cheap isn't always better...but I just received my new glasses courtesy firmoo.com and they were $36 all in all. For prescription lenses. And they're comfortable, good-looking...

And best of yet!!! --I can see.

Meaning: I can read.

Which is especially wonderful as my list of "books to be read" has stacked up while the eye-strain headaches worsened.

So I'm looking forward to some quality time with:

The Way of Kings, Brandon Sanderson
Thunderbird Falls, C.E. Murphy (2nd in the series)
Flesh and Fire, Laura Anne Gilman (From World Fantasy Convention, '09)
Shadowrise, Tad Williams (Vol. 3 in the series)
The Popol Vuh (Mayan mythology)
Grant Writing Handbook (LOL: trying to get non-profit started here, so in the intensive knowledge-acquiring phase :P)
And an html textbook (More needed knowledge)

And there's more... but I think these are the highlights! :D
What are you reading right now?

Blogfeast!

2010-09-23T19:12:00.000-07:00

Hey! Sorry for posting late in the day...I know for some people it's probably already the 24th :(

But here is my blogfeast Entry for Angela McCalister's feast fest hosted on the Jaded Love Junkie!
So head on over and read about food 'till it makes you ready for the holidays :D

I will try to offer a little context this time :P

The main character of this piece is Tati. She and her best friend ran away from their home village when attackers were sighted. Tati is trying to recruit the assistance of her king. But her people (the Maldians) are ethnic inhabitants of Meis. The attackers have ulterior motives for attacking the innocuous-seeming Maldians (as you can see by the Magic Tati uses, the applications in war are disastrous). Tati left before her 14th birthday (which would've included a feast) and where she would have had to make a decision between "Huntress" (which involved warrior training preserved through centuries) or cook. Clearly, she loves food. Food and meals, in her society, bind everyone. They are ritualized in a way the Meiseons simply don't...unless it is a meal of state. Tati wouldn't attend a meal of state at the moment.

So what's she doing? Found out by the mysterious Aloysia Rijnic, whom Tati knows little about right now, she is awaiting an audience with the Meiseon king. The three girls (Aloysia, Tati and Ahgothi) are staying in a Meiseon Inn. Ahgi and Tati are both experiencing a bit of culture-shock, but Tati reacts differently. Frustrated, lost, surrounded by a language she barely understands, Tati seizes on the fact that the serving girl doesn't know anything about food. She storms into the kitchen, determined to make her own meal. The Innkeeper finds her here, and that's where the excerpt starts:

“What is the meaning of this?!” said a new voice.
I did not look up but continued scrubbing.
“Where is my meal?” asked the new man, “What happened to the food?”
“I dumped it in fire,” I said, “It was no good.” I shook my head over the pot. “Give me what supply you have. I will make great meal here.”
“We do not have anything but the roughest of peasant fare. Birds and some berries, that’s the fanciest we have!” said the cook.
When I merely nodded, the Innkeeper stared and the cook started shouting, “You’re gonna steal my job! I’ve had this for years! You are not going to steal my job, you Carra-spawn!” He launched himself at me, holding the fire-iron. It took nothing to reach for the Green of the iron and yank the poor weapon from his grasp.
“Demon,” he hissed, as he came to a stop.
“I will make meal,” I told him gravely, and turned to the Innkeeper. “I ask no pay, this something I raised to do. I cook as long as I stay, I teach fat-man make meal and he can show me what Meis-food look like when not burnt.” I dumped the last of ash onto the fire. “And, if he pledge treat food with more respect I promise I make new pots and,” I waved at other metal cooking implements. “All I want is place sleep, and make food.”
“You’re not staying?” asked the cook.
“My home north, I not stay.”
The Innkeeper nodded, scowling. “As long as my patrons are fed,” he said, but studied me closely. “This will be strange food you make, girl.”
“I am woman,” I corrected. “I am fourteen.”
There was silence.
The serving girl edged into the kitchen again, watching all apprehensively and shifting from foot to foot as the silence smothered even her urgent words. Finally she did defy the quiet, but with the barest of whispers: “They want their food.”
I nodded. “Bring meat. Bring berries. Bring what other fare you have.”
All three stared at me. I felt their eyes, even as I poured water from a jug into the large pot. When the pot was half-full I turned to them. “I ready. Why stand so still? Need supply to make meal: meat and vegetable, herb and spice. Whatever you have, bring here.” They stared so I crossed my arms and glowered. “Now.”
They scattered.
I sighed and stood at the room’s center to inventory what I had to work with. There weren’t enough pots in this kitchen. There were only two stirring spoons. I needed all the implements of a Maldian meal-garden and would have to rely on my Green, if nothing else.
Green works as an extra sense. I can always feel the veins of metal in the ground below me, around me. I can sense them miles away. I can feel the center of the world melt and roil; Don-Yin’s heart is ever restless. So, when one uses the Green to do more than ‘feel’ one generally ‘pulls’ and ‘pushes.’ You can push so hard that friction and heat is created, and eventually the metal can reshape, just as it does in a forge. That is Green shaping. It was also the first lesson I learned from my older brother. So I did now, pulled and shaped until on the floor I had a vast supply of cooking utensils, bowls and plates and trays.
When the three returned laden with birds tied on strings, drying herbs and cooking wines and ales as well as a basket filled with various vegetables; they stopped in the doorway.
“May need more water,” I said.
The cook nodded, but his eyes were bulging. “I’ll get it.”
The Innkeeper dropped his load of birds and herbs. He stared at me a minute, pushed a hand through dark brown hair, muttered something and then left the kitchen. The serving girl followed quickly at his heels.

Naturally, when she finally serves up the meal and returns to the inn's dining room, she is greeted with applause. It's safe to say she and her friends get to stay for free.

Shhh! It's a Secret Blogfest...

2010-09-17T15:17:00.000-07:00

So tired today! I just could not sleep last night...I was planning on writing an original scene for today's Blogfest...but am pulling an excerpt from more sitting & rough material :( Thanks a ton to Summer Ross for hosting! (and all her generous cpomments she leave me here :D ) There are lot's of wonderful entries listed on Summer's site "My Inner Fairy." Go check 'em out

Let me know what you think :D Keep or leave out?

“My lord?”
He smiled a tight-lipped smile. “What did I say about that? I just was going to ask if you'd join me for a glass of wine.” He lifted two glasses from a shelf behind his desk, and a wine bottle. “Could you...” he nodded at his desk, “Bottom drawer on the right.” He stepped to the side letting her open the drawer.
Two cushions, too large for a chair, with a wooden base rested inside the drawer. They were red, edged in gold and ivory. She caught her breath, and looked up at him, but only saw the rigid outline of his back. Tentatively she retrieved the cushion-seats, and placed them by the fire.
He sat and poured her glass, and then his own. He seemed to be watching her the entire time. She thought her hands would start to shake. He passed her a glass and she accepted with a soft thanks, and sipped. She watched him over the rim. For once, he wasn't watching her. Then he looked up and for an instant she thought she saw more green in his eyes than gray.
“It has been just two weeks,” he said as he corked the bottle once more, “but I am curious how you are finding your stay.” He took a sip, signaling for her to respond.
“I... am well,” she replied hesitantly. “I enjoy these evening with Aloysia.”
“I know you meant to spend your meals with your brother and not Roniv and me. Have you seen much of Teshen?”
“Some.”
Kyr leaned forward, just a bit, and she could see laughter in his gray-green eyes. “I suppose he is curious about those dinners, yes?”
Wait. Gray-green? Yesterday they were storm gray. “He is. But there is little for me to say.”
“Have I seemed a tyrant to you? Does my reputation suit me?”
“It has only been two weeks!” she protested. “What can I tell in two weeks?”
“That's what I'd like to know.” He lifted his glass again. “What can you tell?”
“I don't think you are a tyrant. No, not at all.” She all but gulped the rest of the wine, and set it down. Yes, now her hands were shaking. She closed her eyes and tried to still her shaking. “You mean well, for your people. But there is more there, something more complicated. You are hiding something, and I can't tell who around you is in on the secret and who isn't.”
“That is a very astute observation. How have I seemed to be... keeping a secret... ?”
“You are too perfect,” Gellayna pushed her glass forward and he poured another glass, chuckling. Gellayna continued, “Ever since I walked into the hall, your dress, appearance—everything was perfectly consistent with your reputation.” She lifted the wine glass to her lips again, but her hands were still shaking for all her effort to stop them. “Except,” she lingered over the rim, “your reputation feels like half the picture, rather than the whole of it. The taxes. Yes, you tax highly, but you reinvest it in walls and graineries,” She sipped for a minute. “In Dyvecor, it is customary for the local village to come up with the funds to store grain. The lord does not provide for the people. We must attend to such things ourselves.”
“Roads?”
“Are maintained by the Smugglers. They need them, after all. But you... try to serve your people.”
She watched him swallow the last of his glass and set in one stone in front of his knees. “And what does that say about me?”
“That you might well be a good man.”
He did not look up at her, as he poured himself another glass. “Oh, I'm not so sure of that.”
“Then, Kyr Ednin,” she said in slight exasperation, “Tell me why you are not so good a man as you seem upon examination—mind that wasn't my first impression.”
He laughed, again, now soft at first but building. “Where do I start?”
Gellayna scowled, setting her glass down with a decided clink. “You permitted your sister to marry Vynnek Rijnic, and it is widely said she loved him.”
“And he loved her, too,” said Kyr. “I wouldn't have allowed it, otherwise. But it cost the life of my cousin, Sedrinna, though she was dear to me.”
“How does that relate--”
“Koarv wanted Jira,” Kyr met her eyes, and his flashed steel-gray. “Sedrinna looked much like Jira... but more delicate.”
More delicate? Jira was reputed to be very delicate for a Kordic woman, fine features...how could Sedrinna have been “more delicate?” “She is gone?”
“Two years ago. Lord Koarv... is not a kind man. Sedrinna.... I think she was too soft for his world of poisons and intrigue. She bore him a son, I think that's all that mattered to him.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I sealed her death when I arranged that marriage. Did I do the same for Jira? Am I, truly, a good man, Gellayna?” The intensity in his gray eyes made her hide behind the glass. “Or am I something more monstrous?” He shifted his gaze to the fire.
“I have no answer to that.” She sipped her wine, and studied his profile. She kept seeing two faces, rather than one. It was as if she could not decide what she was seeing, if his chin was more square or pointed, if his cheekbones were just a bit higher than common, and his face a little longer. “But it seems, perhaps, that your grief for both of them might lead you to think of yourself so. But it isn't you fault they died.”
“Unless... the Emperor has derived the answer you are in search of. From Sedrinna... to Jira... and I would be next.” He returned his gaze to her. “If the Imperial guard come for me, Gellayna, would you take Aloysia away from here? And don't let Aydi remain here, either. She could go to family, but... that family is quite isolated. Aloysia needs other children about her... she doesn't even have that here.”
“Kyr?! She has you...”
“And if she doesn't?” He leaned forward, and gently took her hand. “Promise me. Take Aydi and Aloysia to Kurukai. Keep them with you. Away from the places the Emperor would recognize them.”
“The Emperor would recognize your cook?”
“Gellayna.”
She searched his face, trying to understand this. Was it because there was Rextian blood somewhere along the line? Or because the Rextians didn't warrant notice or concern? “Yes, Kyr. I'll take them to Kurukai.”
He sighed, as if some great weight were lifted from his shoulders and squeezed her hand briefly before letting it go. She was deeply unnerved, this did not seem to be the man she dined with. “My inquiry... into your secrets... it could kill you?”
“You couldn't. I can't believe you could. But you also know just how powerful knowledge can be.” He drained his glass, watched the fire again. Just now, right here, it seemed as if she were speaking to a man caught, trapped. But trapped in what?
The wine would only serve to weaken her. What was he after?
“But what you find...what you think... I want you to tell me.”
Her fingers closed about the stem of the wine glass, her nails dug into her palm. “Why? If I'm--”
“Gellayna,” he pulled the wine bottle in front of him again. “I've been wondering, if you can find out what I don't want people to know...t hen who else has already done so?” He poured himself another glass.
“No thank you.” She said, soft.
“Could you... tell me of Kurukai?” he asked.
“Certainly,” she was grateful that the subject changed to something more agreeable. She told him of the shops, of her home. She described the seasons of Kosa Dyvecor, the festivals. She told him of her friends, Ehjin and his wife Shaella, She recounted memories of Ehjin's daughters, some even made Kyr laugh. Gellayna began to wonder what was him, and what was the wine. She had lost count of his glasses somewhere along the way.
“It is different here,” he said. “I can't believe you'd leave a town like that for this.”
“I will do what I must for my people, or what I feel I must.” She fought a yawn then, “May I...?
“Of course,” said Kyr, “Sorry to keep you so late.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Yes, tommorow.”
She unwound her legs, stood and slippied from the room.

A Little Segway...

2010-09-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

I'm going to talk about another blogger and good real-life friend of mine today. since she seems to be avoiding using her "real name" in the virtual sphere I'll call her LTB. LTB and I have known each other for 12 years. She got me into Livejournal when she left our community college for Cal. She cured my boredom when I was working as Student Assistant in a State Agency's Library by sending me recipes to try out at home. Over a year ago now, she and I started our very first blog...a food blog...which I neglect far too much in favor of this one and an otherwise hectic life. When we were playing with names we tossed around "From the Chopping Block to the Frying Pan" and ended up going for "The Saucy Choppers." So LTB went with the nickname: "The chopping block," and is using it for all her blogging efforts. (LTB is very good at funny :P)

So when poking around Facebook, I found a link to her new blog and I had to take a look. "Yarns and Buttons." For craft-lovers, this is a must! :D But she also composed a story starring her Amigurumi, which I must say is brilliant. So please forgive the spelling and grammar errors--this story and visuals are awesome. Pure awesome.

Enjoy! :D

Back-to School Daze Blogfest

2010-09-15T08:34:00.000-07:00

I really love the blogfests :D I've been using/writing/re-writing scenes from my WIP Silver Mask and its world for the past several blogfests...so for Roh Morgon's Back to School Daze I'm including a tidbit from Lara's still-developing world :P

Our host has a really cool blog and bio. On her bio she states that she "...found that periodic immersion into other worlds is the key to my coping with this one." Which is a statement I completely identify with :D So check it out! And read some of the other wonderful entries :D

Mine(rough and written this morning so forgive me :P)is this:

Karryna slipped through the wide double doors, following close on the heels of three freshmen girls in pastel plaid tops. Don't be here. Don't be here, Dayton, she thought, and wished she had better control of her own abilities. Maybe then she could turn wish into reality.
The group of girls took a sharp turn into the first corridor, leaving Karryna alone. Exposed. She glanced to her right, her left and then hunched her shoulders, allowing her long dark hair to cover her face. She stalked off down the hall, hugging the left wall. Her locker would be on the left.
There! She opened the locker, just to check that it really was hers and no one else had stashed their stuff inside. Satisfied, she set her backpack at her feet, crouched down to open it and snatch her lock from the front pocket. But when she looked up, she jumped.
“Mierda!” she braced herself against the bottom locker.
“So happy to see me!” Dayton leaned against the lockers next to her, arms crossed.
“Look, she saw nothing. She knows nothing. And I'm out.”
Dayton sighed, a loud, theatrical sound.
Karryna glowered. “What?”
“Ah, Kari, why so harsh?” He pushed away from the locker. “Fine. Serious it is. I didn't tell you the whole story.”
“You told me enough.” Karryna jammed the lock through the locker door.
“Lara needs you, Kari, I promise...”
“She opened a door to...to...” Kari waved her hand, at a loss for words. There had been growls, snarling, screaming, and something calling Lara. “And you made me take credit for that! I thought, originally, she was supposed to believe everything was pranks! She had to remain ignorant of the magical things.”
“She's my cousin,” he blurted. “And she has no family. And because of the ruling of my people, we have to keep her hidden.”
“Something's after her.”
Dayton nodded. “A great many some-things to be precise.”
“Why?”
“Vengeance.”
Karryna didn't know what to say to that, so she stacked her textbooks in her locker. Lara was only fifteen. She had no idea she was a Warden and could open gates to the outer realms, where everything from nightmare and dreams resided. “What did she do?”
“Not her, her parents.”
“Both of 'em? I mean, I know you Warden families like to keep to your clans...but I was under the impression there was a large group of relatives who didn't have the ability...”
“Yeah, well...Lara's case is different. Her parents met on the job. They were from different clans with very different practices...”
“Which she's been trying to figure out. Who her parents are.”
“Yep.”
“And you have all the answers.”
“And I can tell her nothing. Do you know how hard that is? Especially with all the emphasis our families place on loyalty to our kind?”
“And you need me.”
“Kari...someone's got to protect her. And I can't.”
“You don't have the ability?”
“No, I do have the ability...but I'm under a binding.”
She set her lock, shut the door and then lifted a much lighter backpack over her shoulder. “You need me to get around the rules.”
“Exactly. She is your friend, right?”
The bell rang. Yes, Karryna thought, she is. As much as I want to pretend this summer didn't happen, it did. “Fine. But right now...first class is history.”
“Thanks, Kari.”
She rolled her eyes.
“See you at lunch!”
“Yeah, then you will tell me what, exactly, her parents did.” Before he could agree, or protest, she stalked off toward her classroom. It felt like she had commanded him. Kari didn't mind. She'd had to tell her only friend in this rotten suburbia that she was a daughter of a sorcerer this summer. She still hadn't decided if she'd betrayed her dad in the confession. As far as she saw it, Dayton with his stupid place-for-a-name owed her. Completely owed her. He could send her chocolates for a year and it still wouldn't make up for the position he'd landed her in.

So September Begins

2010-09-10T16:01:00.000-07:00

My Birthday was last Thursday. I turned 27. Yes, still young :P But I'm having the "OMG, I'm almost 30! And 3 years is sooo short!" minor crises. Looking for work daily for the past year with few interviews only worsens this feeling.

So this week, I'm focusing on things to make my life feel more under control.

Which is kind of funny to me, because I used to have it all down. But I guess as I've grown, my personal symbolism has changed. I know, sounds weird, but for me to write I need to be in a positive mindset. So no energy dedicated to that end is ever wasted. To the best of my ability that is :P

It used to be clothing, a new book, and a few hours at a cafe that could get me in the right frame of mind.

Now, I need to reign in the chaos at my house. My home is an outward expression of whatever turmoil I'm experiencing at a given time. So feeling in control now means forcing myself to keep a cleaner home. I'm working on changing a whole lot of patterns...

I'm returning to meal planning with gusto. I'm trying (again) to further limit the waste produced...reusing plastic bags and the like...and be more conscious of using all our food. The more conscious I am about these decisions, the more I feel that I and not some indifferent universe guides my choices.

I know...probably sounds silly...but that is where my energy is going this week. And its slowly working!

I've also outlined 6 short stories. So hopefully I'll have them drafted soon.

I'm also hoping the new attempt to manage time will work better than the last :( (seems there's always some obligation that I forget to count when I draft my schedules, and that one thing takes up more time than expected...shoving those things prioritized 'for me' into a corner).

So here goes! Be back next week :D

Fight, Fight, Fight Blogfest!

2010-08-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

So I got carried away with the fairy tale :P This one is shorter. I promise. And It's a rewrite of a scene from Silver Mask! Still rough though >.< So whatever commentary you have is more than welcome. I want to thank JC Martin the Fighter Writer for hosting this one :D I love reading action scenes, but I always feel mine are forced :( So I posted on facebook "Help Me!" And Ariane Broome, got me in touch with Casey Michael Parcell, a martial artist kind enough to give me some ideas. Best yet, we worked out various sequences...so this is my first time doing "non-book" research (it feels like experimental archaeology, but for writing instead of "how did people do this?" :P)

So here you go:

First, Ethirin stopped by the kitchens. The cook listened to his whispered command and made the apple-bread. She held off from the sweets for so long, that those who knew nothing thought there was a celebration. Those who know ate their bread in tiny, somber bites.
After the bread found its way to their hands, the rebels moved. First they overran and defeated, the overseers. Next, they marched toward the factories.
By the time Ethirin reached the slave market, the battle began in earnest. At first, he stayed to the shadows, out of site. The Imperial soldiers appeared in the square. They wore gray leather sewn with black thread. A crown of ice embroidered at their breast. While Ethirin's men encouraged a pseudo-riot, the soldiers marched into square in formation. Then, the slaves, brought to Imperial Kordic from all over the globe, dropped sticks and rocks.
Silence. And from the barrels, strapped bellow benches, tucked away in tidy corners, each man and woman found a weapon. Then, they fell into their own sort of formation, with the Imperial Soldiers trapped in the center. So few compared to Ethirin's many.
He pulled two swords from the undercarriage of a hay wagon, and when he stood, he called: “Thea!” Home. What they fought for.
Ethirin moved forward. His steps in sync with his men. The imperial soldiers fell into a defensive circle, standing shoulder to shoulder. The first to engage Ethirin raised his sword a bit high. Ethirin dodged below swiping one blade across the man's wrist, severing the artery. Etherin's opponent dropped his sword, clamping his left hand around his right wrist to staunch the bleeding. But he still advanced. Ethirin rolled under the man's reach as the soldier tried to lift the heavy sword in his left hand. Ethirin jabbed his right sword through the man's left foot and pinned him to the ground. He swiped his second sword to the right and sliced the larger soldier's right thigh. The man crumpled, and two men fell on him as they squeezed in to prevent the slaves' advance.
Ethirin didn't try to block. He was short, and raised to fight monsters these soldiers had never seen. He raised his right sword to meet the blow, but moved with it. He carried the lunge into the second foe. The two soldiers stared at each other in surprise. But the soldiers' arm was still extended, his blade embedded in his fellow's lung. Ethirin pierced his left sword into the man's armpit, and heaved through. The tip nicked chain mail on the top of the shoulder. Both men fell over together.
Ethirin pulled his swords clean. He looked from side to side, but only his men stood. Fewer. So many fewer. But this was only one fight in the larger battle.
“To Castle Koarv,” he told Darrim when the man met his eye.
“To Castle Koarv.”

Fairy Tale Blogfest!

2010-08-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

Thank you Emily White for hosting the Fairy Tale blogfest! I got a bit carried away :( But! No fantasy elements...which I thought would be difficult. The Fairy Tale I found is The Bronze Ring, an Arabic Fairy Tale. While I set the story in a contemporary (American) setting (cuz that's what I know)I chose Arabic names in order to refer to the original tale. Tell me what you think? Sorry 'bout the length.

Malik didn't return to the mansion until a month after his mother's funeral. She had lived in the large home with a few housekeepers and a cook. The gardener had passed years before, and while the hamdyman nurtured the garden to the best of his ability, the roses withered and the trees drooped. His daughter was about to start High School, so it was time for a change anyway.
Malik, his wife, Yafiya, and daughter Zahrah, moved into the great mansion two weeks before school started. They left their estate outside town, for the smaller surrounds of the city home. The family settled in while their servants cleaned and ordered the mansion. But the garden remained wilted and brown.
Zahrah sat on a rusting metal bench, despairing. Her father found her there.
“I know how you loved the gardens in the country,” he said, resting a comforting hand on his daughter's shoulder.
“Grandma taught me to,” she said. “How could she let it get so bad?”
“Do you want to revive the garden?”
She shook her head, her eyes tearing. “I will be too busy with school. Dad, would you hire a gardener?”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Certainly.”
“And not just any gardener,” she cautioned, “one who's family has been in the business for generations. So we can trust that they really know what they're doing.”
“I promise, Zahrah.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
A week later he had a gardener. The gardener had a son. Together they dug out the weeds, they replanted roses and jasmine.
Zahrah and her mother returned, laden with bags of clothes and school supplies. Her father greeted her at the door.
“I found a gardener,” he said.
Zahrah dropped the bags just inside the door and ran to the garden. Her father's chuckle echoed through the cavernous room and followed through the halls. She shouldered open the garden door, and hastened down the short stair into the garden. The gardener's son looked up from trowel and dirt.
“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” She called to the gardener and his son.
The gardener nodded, but his son beamed.
“The garden must mean a lot to you, miss,” said the Gardener.
“It was my Grandma's. I'd help, but school starts next week...”
“Where are you going?” asked the son.
“The one over on D'Oro Ave.”
“So am I!”
Zahrah grinned. “What's your name?”
“Harith.”
“I'm Zahrah. See you in class, and thanks again!” She waved and returned to her rooms, where the servants sorted her school clothes.
By the time Zahrah and Harith plunged into finals, ending the academic year, the garden bloomed. Zahrah would find bouquets of fresh flowers around the house, and she knew it was Harith. He left them at her favorite garden bench, at on the table in the breakfast nook where she studied, and in a vase next to her bedroom door. He continued to pass her flowers into their sophomore year and junior year, though they barely had a chance to talk at school. Occasionally, in the gardens they swapped stories of gardening, of their days at school, teachers and exams.
Meanwhile, Makil tended the district office of Imad Corp., as his father had before him. The company was in the midst of expansion, and CEO had come to town three months before Zahrah's prom. Makil invited the CEO, Kadar, and his family to dinner.
Kadar had one son, Sami, who was about Zahrah's age. Over a dinner of Hummus, olive bread, and lamb, Sami watched Zahrah. She blushed and tried to keep her head tucked down, with the bouquet of lavender, geraniums and daisies between them. Malik noticed and aproved, letting his daughter know it with a quirk of his lip.
Zahrah felt a stone settle in stomach. Sami's chiseled features and dark complexion were certainly appealing, but she wasn't interested.
The next week, Sami transferred to her school. He shared several classes with her, and found his way into conversations. Harith glowered at a distance. Then prom neared.
Sami asked her out before Harith could. She weedled out of the conversation, and fled home as soon as the school bell rang.
“Should I?” she asked her father over dinner.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Sami has wealth and position, should it work,” he shrugged, “You will at least maintain quality of life.”
“But I love Harith!” she blurted. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if by covering her lips she could stuff the words back behind her teeth.
“What?!” her father thundered.
“Please, Dad. Please.”
“All right, if you claim Harith is the better man, let's devise a contest.”
When the gardener and his son returned to tend the flowers, Makil called Harith to meet him. Sami was already there. The two boys scowled at each other, but sat respectfully before Makil.
“It is my understanding that both of you wish to take my daughter to the prom.”
“Yes,” they said, in unison, then swapped glares.
“You will go on a treasure hunt around town, and whoever returns with more items, shall win.”
Both boys agreed, and marched to the front door. Zahrah hid in the shadows of the porch,sitting still. When she saw Harith, she stood. He turned upon hearing the creak of the bench swing.
Sami had already climbed into his fancy ferrari, and already sped down the street.
“I have something for you,” Zahrah told Harith, “Here,” she pressed a plastic square into his hand.
“Your credit card?”
“There's a note on the back. If you don't exceed the number there...all will be well.”
“Zahrah...”
“I love you. Go. Win this so I don't have to see that annoying Sami again. He's got a head start already!”
Harith said nothing. He tucked the card into his wallet even as he hurried to his old truck. It spluttered groaned as he started it up. Zahrah watched from the doorway.

Sami hit a red light at the intersection. He pounded the wheel with an open palm.
“Could you gimme a ride?” asked an old homeless woman on the island.
Sami recoiled in the seat. “No way!” He rolled up his window and raced forward as soon as the light changed.

Harith hit a red light at the intersection. He sighed, and swiped a calloused hand through his dark hair.
“Could you gimme a ride?” asked the old homeless woman.
“Where to?” asked Harith.
“The local YMCA.”
“Hop in,” said Harith, opening the door. “I think I can make the time.”
Her pockets rattled with pills. Her clothes reeked, but not as bad as the manure he hauled for his father. She stuffed plastic bags at her feet, full of empty soda cans and glass bottles.

Sami sped to the first place on the list. But when he glanced down to review the address, he missed the light. An Escalade rammed his ferrari on the passenger-side. He spun. The SUV squealed to a halt. Sami couldn't think straight. Was that a concussion? There was someone shouting at him. Then, sirens. He lay flat on his back, a swirl of faces around him.
Somewhere near by, a woman wailed. “It was green! It was green!”
Doors closed all sound out. The sirens just grew louder.

Harith and the woman arrived at the YMCA. She convinced him to help her inside, to find a cot. They checked in at the main gate, before winding through the halls toward the beds. As they passed the basketball court, they heard shouting.
“Help! Help!”
The guide held up a finger, as if to say, “One moment.”
Harith and the old woman followed.
“It's the Governor!” Someone called.
Harith looked around, sure enough, a whole camera crew and security detail milled about the room. The media people shifted, or stood helpless, loaded down with their heavy equipment. The security men were on their knees with a woman in a thin skirt and blazer. She must have been the reporter conducting the interview.
“Here,” the old woman pressed pills into his hand. “Give it to him.”
Harith handed over the pills. The security guard nodded, and called for water. Harith, knelt to the side, waiting. When he looked up to find the old woman, she was gone. He presumed she vanished in pursuit of a cot.
When the EMT arrived, he unpacked the kit. The Governor lifted his head. “I'm okay, I'm okay.”
The EMT shook his head in befuddlement. “What happened?”
“We were given a pill, from him.” Said a security guard.
“And you administered it?!” responded the EMT.
“Yes,” said the security guard, sheepishly. “It looked exactly like his medications at home.”
“What are you taking?” asked the EMT of the Governor.
The Governor rattled off latin titles that Harith could not understand.
The EMT's shoulders drooped in relief, then he looked over at Harith. “It looks like you saved his life.”
“I've got to thank him properly!” said the governor. “What were you doing today...?”
“Halith,” he said.
“Halith! What are your plans today?” the Governor picked himself up.
Halith wet his lips. “I have these things to find, sir.” He handed the Governor Makil's list.

Sami woke in the hospital. The nurse told him they were only holding him for a few hours, but his car had been towed. It was sitting in a shop on Broadway. They had the address.
Sami nodded. “How soon can I leave?”
“We'll let you know,” said the nurse.

The Governor, driver, and the whole media crew helped Halith find the items Makil marked. The Governer added a few items of his own, clothing Halith for his prom. His story was to make the evening news. Then on the steps of the state capitol, he was bestowed with a brass ring, with the state seal fixed into the band. The photographers took pictures of Halith shaking hands with the Governor.

Sami stumbled into his clothes as soon as they let him go. He called for a taxi and they met him in front of the hospital. He passed the address of the shop to the driver, and climbed out as soon as the driver stopped. The taxi sped off, the wheels kicking up excess sprinkler-water filling the gutter. Sami cursed and lifted his arm to guard his face. Still, his entire right side was covered in splattering drops.
“My car?” he asked the mechanic on his coffee break.
“Which one?”
“The ferrari.”
The mechanic guffawed. “Two weeks. At least.”
Sami grumbled. The mechanic saluted him. On his way out of the shop, he slipped in grease, and landed on his left side.
He had to call a new taxi to ferry him from place to place. The taxi driver did him no favors. Sami landed in mud, trudged through an alleway to find a back entrance to a shop where he stepped in dog feces. On his way from the shop, he hid from some thugs in the alley, and when he stood he was mired in dirt.
By the time he returned to Makil's home, he was ragged and dirty. But he still beat Halith. Makil was displeased by the state of him, but grateful that it was Sami and not Halith. A servant saw to Sami's bath, rinsed and dried his clothes. When he was as clean as his tattered jeans and shirt allowed, he sat with the family.
Makil and Sami made plans for Zahrah's prom. She, meanwhile, sat dejected and silent. Her head hung over her hands.
Then there was a knock on the door. Halith entered with all the items requested, clad in his tux. Zahrah's eyes lit, her shoulders straightened.
“What is your story?” Makil asked, evaluating Halith.
After Halith told him, and allowed: “Zahrah and I have even been promised to be interviewed on the day of the prom. I promise, it will give you and your company a lot of positive press.”
Zahrah swallowed a giggle, poorly. Her father relented, dismissing Sami. On the night of the prom, Zahrah and Halith danced till midnight. For once, they didn't have to hide.

Word Paint Blogfest!

2010-08-26T21:55:00.000-07:00

Thank you Dawn Embers for hosting the Word Paint Blogfest! Not only does this fellow blogger have an awesome name, it's Dawn! My middle name :P (My mother called me Andrea (on-dree--uh) Dawn half the time growing up, but when I was 13 and started going by Drea (Dray-uh)the pattern fell away. Besides, Drea Dawn just doesn't sound right...I think it could do as a dinosaur name, though :P Thankfully, didn't figure this out until after 20...otherwise my little brother would likely have had even more fun at expense than he did.

So onto another bit from Silver Mask (or not). I don't count myself a master of description. I think it's one of my weakest areas :( So that's why I signed up! Exercise is good.

###

Kyr recognized her instantly. Not who she was, but her title: Taeverai. She crossed under the marble lintel while the servants held wide the bronze doors and he knew. Her long green skirts adorned in ivory and golden embroidery proclaimed her family standing. She was the younger child of Old Ones. The taeree, an apron-like garment few Rextian women still wore, told him she followed the traditions. Her young face belied the age her outfit led him to assume, and then lamplight glinted on her hand. A ring. He didn't need to see it to know what it looked like. All Taeverai had one. A ruby set in gold, etched with one phrase: “Re zath chem.” I know and I listen.
But what was she doing here?
She wore her braids in a tight knot on her head. She was unwed, only two thin braids fell from the bun and down her back. Two jeweled pins glinted in her brown locks. She had stuffed them deep, likely to hide the tarnish. Mothers passed rare items to their daughters, and no Rextian was wealthy enough to buy such pieces new. All Rextian jewelry remaining in the frozen north had been crafted before their ancestors fled the falling kingdom across the seas. Centuries old.
Why here? Why Now?
She curtsied in the Kordic way, reminding him he sat on his throne in Castle Ednin. His hall, where he answered only to the Emperor. He shouldn't know what she was. A Taeverai must have no meaning to him. Her position as the keeper of Rextian knowledge and tradition could not be recognized here. He could not defer to her with the respect her station deserved. No matter what he thought, really thought. More disguise, more lies.
He forced his mouth into the familiar thin line, and pretended he couldn't read the Rextian codes etched into her attire. Only another Rextian would be trained to read those things. She couldn't know. He couldn't let anyone else know.
For Jira, he thought, and assumed the cold, dispassionate posture an outsider would expect of the imposing Lord Kyr Ednin.
###

All right...there might be one solid paragraph or two of description. Do I need more? What else would you like top "see"?

Rainy Day Blogfest

2010-08-25T08:18:00.000-07:00

I am back to the blogfest rounds! Whoohoo! I want to thank Christine H. blogging at The Writer's Hole for hosting this. In my early drafts I usually have an issue with time. I tend not to give enough weather cues to help recognize the passage of months, years, whatnot. It's something I'm working on :P So this exercise was particularly valuable in stretching those writer-ly muscles :D Hope you enjoy!

# # # #

Shayla paused mid-swipe with her dust cloth. The first of the autumn rain tapped the window, distracting her from her task. She folded the cloth as she moved toward the rocking chair. Ah, she thoughts as she sat, here is why Omae-Hehriya loves this spot so. Looking down on the town, she could see almost every corner, every street. But in Gellayna's empty room all was safe. There were no entanglements with the guards winding their way into the merchant's square with their hoods were lifted against the rain, and shoulders hunched against the wind. Or the smugglers doing their best to avoid the guards, dragging a heavy box through the mud of a street running parallel. So much life, and from the room of Omae's absent daughter.

There's something sad about that, Shayla thought. The message was made even more poignant in the rain. Death and life seemed so close together, and the world...felt silent. She could sit and watch the children race through the streets and dodge about the guards stomping through the mud, but the steady streams of water made the world feel muted. It was distant. Like looking at everything through a gauze curtain.
Does Omae feel this way all the time? Both her children gone to who knows where? And Ehjin...

Shayla stood as soon as her thoughts strayed back to her husband. He had work to do, she shouldn't be worried. But fear of potential dangers nagged her, no matter how she wished it away. So she dusted. She cared for Gellayna's parents, because Gellayna was no longer there to do so.
Now, as she glided into the hall, to get away from the rain, one image haunted her thoughts. Ehjin, on a farmer's mount, traveling from village to village, spreading word. Planning an evacuation no one wanted. Plotting resistance in the rain and mud. While Gellayna remained in the cold Ednin castle to the north, and Teshen did whatever he did...

Who's life? Who's death? And would the rain prolong it, or just grant the illusion of distance?

“Ah!” Omae Hehriya called as Shayla made her way down the stair. “I made soup! Perfect for today, yes?” The old woman beamed at her, but Shayla was beginning to develop an idea of what pains she hid. She hid them well. I must learn to hide my fears so skillfully.

“Soup!” Khirisse called, trailing her toddling sister as she rushed in from the outdoors.

“Children!” Shayla and Omae said at once.

“Mud,” Shayla reminded in a softer tone. Khirisse looked down at her self and winced. “Ays' fault.”

“I'm sure,” Shayla said, “But get out of those clothes first.”

“All right.” Khirisse heaved a sigh. When her daughter was on the stair, Shayla rolled her eyes.

Omae laughed. “I'm sure you were every bit as over dramatic as they.”

“It's entirely possible.”

“Now, how about that soup?”

“Perfect, Omae.” But in the kitchen, spoon in hand, she heard the rain again and thought of her absent loved ones. All over again, she worried how they fared.

Old Books

2010-08-23T16:44:00.000-07:00

About a week ago, my guy finished Sanderson's Warbreaker and comes to me asking "What should I read next?"

Naturally, I have a lot of books. At one point I had read all that I have on my shelves, but a few years ago my collection surpassed my ability to keep up. and I have become very picky about new books. I find myself going to the bookstore and browsing, just browsing. I'm completely indecisive! Some little voice says: But you haven't finished X yet, you really should. And my budget and eye-strain prompt me to hold off...it'll still be there next year, and if not...well, it'll be online.

So I didn't have a new book to share. I puzzled through my bookshelves, thinking: "He likes adventure, the high fantasy stuff...Goodkind, Keyes, Sanderson...and there, I found a book I'd nearly forgotten about. Aurian, by Maggie Furey. Yes, you can find it on Amazon. I read the book in 96/97 when I was 13. I loved it. I remember that I was enrolled in a private Independent Study School that year, and my mother had fits trying to get me to do my homework. I distinctly remember Aurian stashed atop a large bookcase to prevent me from reading rather than studying. I pulled a chair over, snatched the book, and returned it to it's supposed captivity before my parents returned home from work.

But now as my guy mentions snippets of plot I realize I have forgotten so much...I think it might be time to reread my most formative books. My favorite books, most of which were published from 94-2000. Since then, I've just gotten picky...and I think anthro readings have inspired me to look at world building a bit differently :P

Slow Progress

2010-08-19T15:48:00.000-07:00

I've a lot of things on my plate right now :(

1) Job hunt continues! I've had some recent success with careerbuilder. Meaning, I'm actually getting calls! Yay!

2) Event planning and promotion of Leafkin Anthology release. Via mediabistro e-newsletters, I've certainly been piecing together some plans...which I'll start implementing next week...

3) Non-profit forms for SWS. Something else I'm getting back to next week :P

4) New project with my mother which we've been working on for two weeks :D This is the best bet for income, and when the website goes live, I'll post an explanation, Till then we're kinda keeping the whole thing under wraps. But! I have been writing for it. Non-fiction...but still...writing!

5) I'm inching into the Silver Mask rewrite. It's brief, so far, but I feel like this a great start :D

6) The boyfriend's education. He went part time to community college so I could get my degree. But with the economy so poor, and the market inundated with college degrees, life just hasn't gone according to plan. So now we're chasing after Financial Aid, Grants and Loans, so he can get out of IT and focus on Biology. The sooner he can do that, the less stress for the both of us :P

Transitional phases suck. I think that sentence sums up the last year and a half.

What I Learned from Leafkin 2010

2010-07-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

Editing the anthology was intense. Why? Because I had to be picky about craft. I like concentrating on structure--evaluating what works for the characters, plot, how a story is built. That includes having an intuitive knowledge of 1) the storytelling process and 2) an eye for what the author "intends." 3) discussing with the author about the effectiveness of the prose.

What craft is important to hone?

Sentence structure. Authors need to know how the audience's eye travel's over the page. They need to understand what information is retained, and what fails. Sentences need to be structured so that this information is delivered to fullest effect, while maintaining "voice."

However, I tend to believe C.E Murphy when she says: "practice, practice, practice" on an old Magical Words post.

Does this mean writers should overhaul sentence structure to be "certain" they communicate with their audience? No. I've been there, I've followed the wrong advice. I'm still piecing myself back together from that fiasco.

It means authors should be aware of how the audience reads the work. If something is important, cater to the audience's eye. Not all the time. Not so much you sacrifice your characters. But IMO a writer must be honest to character and self, and then communicate to readers. Communicate both.

Sentence structure, then paragraph structure, dialogue...these build plot, and keep the reader interested. If a writer isn't interested in addressing these things, they aren't seeking publication.

When I read something submitted to Leafkin, I assume polish. The story is expected to have been critiqued for: Word Choice, Sentence structure, Plot, Character, Passive sentences, adverbs, effectiveness. Does this mean I "trust" the "assumed" critiquers, and do not mark the mistakes I see? No. It means I expect a thicker skin. I do not mark things to be deleted out of meanness. I mark them because they aren't working to build the story. Does that necessarily mean the author needs to get rid of it? No. Make it work? Yes. Follow my exact suggestion? No.

I assume the writer will read over the edits and call or e-mail. This hasn't happened in every instance. I expect at least a nod. We don't have a terribly large pool of writers in this project. I always include: "call or e-mail me with questions when you receive this." And I include my phone number, just in case. If a person does not respond, I expect they agree with all my suggested alterations. How do I know they did or didn't? E-mail. A phone call.

If they called and said: "This is what I'm trying to do here...."
I might say, "All right. Didn't work. This is what you communicated....x, y,z."
Author, "Oh. What if I did a?"
me: "That might work, give it a shot."
Did I make the suggestion? No. But in order to make stories "live up to their potential," authors need to be willing to admit their weaknesses and mistakes.
This requires dialogue. Dialogue requires two willing participants.

In my life, I am easy to get a hold of. I live in the social media sphere. I'm always on Facebook and I haunt Twitter. I blog, I check my e-mail as much as 4 times a day. And my phone is (almost) always on me. I return calls. I have it set up so that if people leave me a message on my phone, Google voice sends me a text message and an e-mail. If I missed something (I'm human) I think people should drop me a line.

Still I was surprised how much time it took to note "little errors" like passive sentences, unclear wording, adverbs (which can be very unclear in short stories, I found), contradictory actions and wording, etc. When the stories had a strong plot, which I could trust the writer to be moving forward, this was easier for me. But when there was either excess information (not applicable to the plot) or far too little information (so I could not get a feel of character or author intent), this task became picky and time-consuming.

So my advice (to myself and others) based on this experience:

1st step--do you repeat words or phrasing? If you over use anything, even something so small as "the" or "of" :purge it. At least as much as you are able.

2nd step--do any of your characters, or multiple characters, repeat the same movement/tone of voice? If so, synonyms are your friends, use them.

3rd step--"it," "looked," "noticed," and adverbs? Purge as much as possible. How does a person notice? "I noticed him watching me." This is vague, especially if the scene is tense. "I turned around and met his stare. His smile reached his eyes, informing me he still plotted mischief. Was I factored into his scheme? What conclusions did he draw with that evaluation? Certainly, I knew, that smile always followed a realization. A decision. Most often ones that neglected me." Longer? Yes. Tied the action into internal dialogue? Yes. Plot? present? Tension? Yes.

4th step--to be and to have: is, was, were, weren't, had, has, have...these were all overused, across the board. So purge. If a sentence reads: "She had to run to catch the the thief." Look at the placement of the words, run and catch...important to the sentence's meaning are both at the center of the sentence. If this concept is integral to your story, make certain the important bits are either at the beginning or ending of the sentence. "She ran after the thief. He turned a corner, stumbled into a gutter, and she caught him." "Run" at the beginning. "Thief" at the end of a sentence, and "caught" at the end. Yes, she couldn't have caught him if he hadn't "stumbled into a gutter," but that part isn't as important as indication of the pursuit, and his being caught. And! The to be's and to have's! "-Ed" really, really is enough indication of tense. Do you want to never use these verbs? No. But they do lead to passive sentences and a lot of clarity issues.

Can this change your "voice?" I don't think so. I think voice and craft are carried by manipulation (and conscious deviation from) the rules. When the rules never entered one's mind when revising a story, and I can read that on the page, I switch into a "teacher mode." Spot and inform the author of the rules.

Why? This entire project is meant as a learning experience. What does it take to publish? What makes a good story? What makes a good edit? What are each writer's strengths and weaknesses? Etc. Most publications won't take the time to inform authors about the rules their breaking, or take the time for the author to say: "Yeah, I know, did it work?" And sometimes, it does. L.H. Reid did a very good job with a strong omniscient POV. But sometimes it doesn't. And the author has to be committed to the experience, and the lesson, in order to derive anything from the journey.

That is the advantage of doing this project as a Writers' Group. :P

Drea

I didn't die, I promise :(

2010-07-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

This month, Leafkin chaos descended. I edited short stories at a furious pace, assisted in planning and manning some of our fund raisers...and dropped off the internet. But now I get to work on promoting while others format and arrange the publication of the anthology. Whoohoo!

And I am returning to my own writing. This makes me happy. Reading so many other peoples' writing always teaches me a few things. I hope what I learn will make me a better writer.

I promise I will join more blogfests soon! They are certainly fun :D

Be back tomorrow for a "proper" and longer post :P

-Drea

Thursday's the Day

2010-06-29T16:39:00.000-07:00

This Thursday is the deadline for the anthology my writers' group is going to (hopefully) release in October. I'm not writing anything for it, but I am editing. The looming preparations, fundraisers and the like have kept me out of the house and/or focused on critiquing, planning, etc.

I'm looking at character and structure (the substantive edits) Erica is looking at line-by-line and Mellisa (who posts on Mondays to the SWS blog)will be copy-editing.

So I've been scarce, and I might be scarce for the next week or two, until Erica gets elbow-deep into formatting. Then, my focus will be on raising the funds for the anthology and the release celebration.

But if all goes to plan, this process will prepare writers for the process of publishing a book. Also, there will be more knowledge spread around about what it takes to self publish. We are also trying to create community in our city, which an anthology and celebration serve to attract. Hopefully the community will follow.

Crazy Monday

2010-06-21T15:59:00.000-07:00

Today is not going as planned. I am trying to get two chapters done by the end of week (not shooting for words, but arcing over scenes, just to get things down). I will be posting Wednesday to another blog...which I wanted to be "a part of" but hope the friends for whom I wanted it, really take the project and use it to its potential. I interviewed a local artisan for my Wednesday post today.

Then, yesterday my brother called. He needs me to french braid a girl's hair for a music video while he picks up some other model (who's going to be in the video, obviously) in another city. But I guess older sisters are good last-minute, cheap labor, even if I've never been a hairdresser...

Tomorrow I am planning on visiting a temp agency, just to get the process going.
So my writing time is going to be squeezed down into a few hours a day. Sad part, is while it "feels" like a bad thing, I tend to get more writing done when I have to "fight" for the time. So here's hoping!

Fun Saturday

2010-06-19T12:32:00.000-07:00

So today is a writers' group meeting :D In this one, we usually attempt an exercise, or even write to a prompt. This week's was kinda fun, so I thought I'd share.

Exercise: write about a child's monster.

This is rough and just written :( But have a look! :D

###

Taysha pushed herself against the wall and hoped the shadow fully obscured her. She heard the creature before she saw it. Their clawed feet clacked against the stone. Then there were two and they walked like they owned the castle. But it was her father's. The castle was her father's.
One stalled, right in front of her. She caught its gaze, and looked downward immediately. It didn't notice, right?
Those large yellow eyes in a gray-leather face seemed to see everything. White robes hid its body below the head.
Taysha held her breath. She studied the stone, instead, and listened for any movement. Anything. The world about her seemed gray. Everything gray, colorless.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears slid down her cheeks.
The creature continued on. There was only shadow. Darkness. She was alone in the hall once more.
Taysha slid to the floor and the sobs came, wracking her small form. She buried her head in her knees, and tried to smother the sound of her crying in her woolen skirts. Why were there so many now? Why did her father and brother never seem to see? Did they know about Lyttera and Denjic? They couldn't know about her friends.
She wiped her eyes with her palms and lifted herself up again. She was Taysha Koarv, daughter or a Kordic Kosa Lord, nothing should be able to make her that weak. The monsters should not posses such power, and it was within her control to grant. Or so she told herself as one hand gripped the stones of the wall, squeezed. When she released her grip, she crossed her arms about her narrow chest, and stalked off toward her suite. It was too dangerous for her friends here, it was time to smuggle them back to Yissera's place.
There was a hiss. Taysha stopped where she stood. The hiss turned to a growl, and clacking, scraping resumed. Faster than before. It was running.
Taysha didn't wait, she ran. She dodged about three corners and down a flight of stairs. The monsters followed her, hissing, clacking, and growling. Her world condensed to her feet, her pulse and her breath. But one part of her mind detached, knew where she was running, and marked each landmark, prompted her to turn. Somehow she got to her rooms ahead of the creatures. She slipped into the room, slammed the door behind her.
Lyttera looked up, she was sitting in the chair, holding her toddler brother.
“Time to go,” said Taysha managing a strained but even tone. A talon scraped the door behind her.

Breaking the Rules Blogfest!

2010-06-18T16:52:00.000-07:00

Thank you Elizabeth Mueller for hosting the Breaking the Rules blogfest! Go Check out Elizabeth's Blog to find all the other awesome entries. As I am working on commenting ...enjoying the blogfests but still getting into the swing of incorporating them into my daily routines...I read and commented first on several of the blogs. There are some really excellent posts! So yeah, people, go check them out!

This morning I was writing part of a new piece. It's one of those "I won't know how I feel about this until I'm done with it," pieces. So for the blogfest I dipped into the files on my laptop that have arrived on this hard drive having survived two desktops, and two laptops to be shelved...But I just can't bring myself to delete it...The style of the following passage and what I was working on this morning is so insanely different, I'm shaking my head right now. And that has nothing to do with the rules, I'm certain you can spot tons that I'm breaking! Not to mention my public-school trained spelling and grammar :( A little toooooo apparent, I fear.

Background: Same world as other High Fantasy WIP, different era, different geographical region :( Was shelved about 6 years ago, and other than 50 pages of a rewrite that barely taps this draft (and itself was shelved for going nowhere right yet) it has not seen the screen in a good while.

Warning: spelling is atrocious. My roughs are a grammarian's nightmare. Just saying...a little too embarrassing to read all the way through and correct it :( So it is what is... Let me know what rules I'm breaking here :D

###

There were three sisters, the gaurdian, the lady and the sorceress. Kessiry was the last, the eldest of the three and the first to have the necklace sear her throat and leave the tattoo...the mark of her heretige and destiny. Tellis, the youngest, lived in the city of Jeztor, a Culla-Korlatz, she was, a guardian Called to defend the city during its first years. Tellis watched the stones pile up and form a shape reflecting in every minute detail the city Tellis' mother had left so long ago. Pehryne's Call surprised everyone. She was a lady, born and raised in the courts of Tevric, she was to be the child spared. The normal, pampered, middle daughter. Then the Korlatz mark burned her too, and she was sent to the south, to Southern Ekliri. Her sisters knew that she likely went beyond, went into regions they could not imagine. That their sister could survive the Curse neither doubted verbally, but when the eldest and youngest met, a meloncholy shadowed their words, their faces...and the sorceress began to look for answers to elementry questions.
Kessiry was known to gather ancient works and every northern Kingdom at war gathered the texts in massive supplies, stacked high and high in their libraries. When Kessiry, her tattoo ablaze with Draden's Gold arrived to end the fighting, as was always the situation--the Kings attempted to sway the Korlatz with promise of the hidden volumes. She would not, could not, be swayed, for it was Draden's desire that Don-Yin be fully at peace. Whether Gold was needed, or swords or diplomacy, Kessiry always won out over the Kings and Queens of Aylerone. The texts they spent such time aquiring, those would vanish with Kessiry.
Between Calls she would sit with paper bound carefully into a book, so rare in those times, and carefully would she record whatever useful history, whatever clue hid in the ancient writings. However, she soon learned that the older the scroll or book, whatever it was she found, the harder it was to understand. Raised as a noble, and special even among that prized class, Kessiry was as well educated as she possibly could have been, and it was not that the language was so different from her mother's Rextian toungue--for that was what all the works were composed in--it was more as if the words would not stay in her mind. She could never remember it. Even after translating it into the modern trade-language, she could not understand it. She would frown and puzzle over herown script, which had the same effect on her as the old writtings.
Then, looking more closely at her surroundings when Called to the Northern shore, the Western and Southern Ekliri...she saw a resemblance the land had, the people had, all over the Kingdoms and even deep into the Cursed Land.
"Tellis," she told her sister when in Jeztor one day, "I do not know what I see, but the lands...it is more as if it is one realm than a dozen states and nomadic Eklirites and--"
"That is silly, 'Siry.How could that be?"
"I--I would not know. Sometimes it is like I am glimpsing the past, into a time I am not intended to see."
"The Jeztori believe that knowledge of the past is important, sister, they have preserved centuries and of centuries of histories, gathering them from these lands and some brought over from Kottia-RExtian. There is nothing--"
"I have the oldest volumes Tellis," Kessiry leaned forward in her chair, "not they." She set her cider mug atop the small table withn a loud thunk.
Tellis looked nervously at the mug, then back to her sister, her voice was a whisper. "Y-you would know better than I, then, Kessiry."
"What does it mean?" She mumbled, staring at some distant point, something beyond Tellis and which the younger woman knew did not exist.
"Maybe you weren' meant to know?"
"And who do I gather this for?" her arm swept the room, but indicating nothing in it. Clearly in reference to--
"Someone else?"
Kessiry stared at her. Tellis did not flinch under her sister's peircing gaze, but remembered how Pehryne always had..."Who else?"
"Do not think in the present, Siry. There were an uncountable number who lived before us and yet more to after. How can you possibly know?"
The sorceress smiled. "Tht is it then. The future. Thank you Tellis." She stood and strode quickly, distractedly almost, from the room.
"Si-Siry!" Tellis stood, bent to pick up the mug, the ran after her sister, "Kessiry! What do you--"
Kessiry paused by the entry door, a hand already on the carved wooden doorknob already. "The one word I remember the most, Tel, is 'Azoryn.'"
Convinced that a descendant would be able to comprehend thew knowledge she had so painstakingly copied, Kessiry finnished the diary and when time turned and her daughter Nevla was Called, the book and family necklace were given into her keeping. Time turns quickly yet, and Nevla passed booth to her son.

Character Interview Blogfest

2010-06-15T19:35:00.000-07:00

Thanks Sangu for hosting this blogfest! I always loved the idea of this exercise, but have never seemed to have a reason to do it myself :D Or just couldn't kick myself in the butt hard enough to pull it off... Anyways, it was super hard to pick a character. In the end this is what I picked:

I didn't want her to think the interview strange, so I sat on the seat across from hers, and waited for her to arrive. The cushion was soft, though there was no back support. I tucked my legs to the side, forcing myself to sit upright. I set the pad of paper on my leg, waiting.

She entered in a flurry of skirts, but her slippers were silent on the stone. She sat on her own seat. Every movement was practiced, almost theatrical. I knew it was her training, and that she was being formal because of the context. She was as uneasy as I was.

"I was told you came from far away. Has the mainland heard our need?"

"No," I said. I had to think quickly, create a persona. I did all the time for the characters, what was a little lie? "I am from Kyde-Tazmed...my country there is known as Enloren."

"Ah." She hid her disappointment well. The training again, but I knew precisely what that near-imperceptible shrug meant. "So your peoples recently revolted from our mutual enemy. Have you come seeking an alliance?"

"Not exactly. We need information first. Too decide."

She inclined her head in recognition. One braid fell forward, and beads jangled against her cheek. Her perfect posture was required, not only because of the cushion seats, but also the elaborate hairstyle.

"What would you like to know? I will do my best...to be brief and to the point."

"What brought your peoples to the Kordic continent? And do you like it here?"

A smile twitched at the corner of her lips, but when she spoke it faded into the words. "My ancestral homeland fell. It doomed itself and my ancestors escaped on the last of the ships vacating the continent. I have known no different than this place. We all yearn for the homeland, but it is only real in the stories. I have lived long enough to know that reality would pale in the comparison of the legends I tell the children."

"If you ever had the opportunity to see it, would you?"

"Yes. Of course. But it won't be...Rextiauna. The legend, the symbol, it exists in dreams. And from there does it derive purpose."

"But it is abstract..."

"Life, and all it's harshness, riah, they will never go away. Look at what happened to your continent...wars between your various little realms. The Koridic Emnpire moves in and begins swallowing up chunk after chunk, and they drive record keepers such as yourself underground. The Svorini infiltrate the other realms as assassins in order to smuggle your kind out of harms way..."

"Weren't you optimistic once?"

Her laugh was full and rich. It filled the room. "Once," she said, but the smile doesn't die this time. "But we all grow up."

"What brought this on? This pessimism?"

"My niece. She died."

I hated myself at that moment. And I couldn't stand it, I looked at my paper. The cursive lettering in my indecipherable hand seemed out of place in this room.

"What if she's alive?" I whispered.

Silence. I try to look up, just to see Gellayna's face. She was like stone. I couldn't let her know...I'd spoil the truth I was still uncertain how she'd learn. "I mean...we had a lord, the Lord we nicknamed Zaerc...his fiancee...she ran away. We all assumed she was dead, but the truth was the Svorin had taken her in, given her another name. And she escaped unnoticed under the guise of a priestess of Azoryn...What if something similar happened to your niece?"

"Ethirin, a man who works for my husband, he saw the body."

"But...are you certain...?"

She seized the fabric of her skirt, making two tiny fists. "My brother isn't. I think Teshen just can't face the fact that he put little Ayslynne in the palace at Dhazi and it changed her. He can't accept that she is capable of something like murder."

"Wasn't she like a niece to you, too?"

"Oh, yes. I knew that little girl when she was newly born. I braided her hair when she started her lessons...it's a sign of stages, with the women of my people." She raised a hand to her head, the large bun and the two braids spilling from its center, the braids falling down her back. Objectively I acknowledge the influence of Chinese movies set in China's feudal era on the Rextian women's hairstyles. "But," Gellayna continued, "It means little. She had the blade in her hand and the corpse...Ethirin saw it...None of us wanted to believe it."

"But your still fighting."

"Jiranaeha and Vynnek and Aloysia and Sedrinna...they will not have died in vain! They were all Kyrriki had...all he had..."

"But now, your daughter..."

"Ahrenai." Some hint of her old optimism returned at the mention of her daughter. "She is...wonderful...we fight so that the world we give her is not the one Loysa knew. The one that destroyed Ahrenai's cousin will not destroy my little girl."

"And Kyr feels the same." I didn't need to ask that question, but I have a habit of speaking my thoughts.

"He does," Gellayna responded as if I had asked, I let it slide. She really shouldn't know how well I knew them...if she did, I'd become the interviewee and she the interviewer. While I knew that would probably please her, as her curiosity was a form of escape as well as dealing with the situation she found herself in...I didn't have the time to answer questions that would be a lot more thorough and pointed than mine.

"If you could see your niece right now, what would you say to her?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I sent all my prayers to Azoryn. I don't know why I thought the Goddess of Destiny would be a kind mistress. I would trade everything to save you the pains you endured, anything to grant you a life past thirteen..."

Now I felt really guilty. I wanted to let her know it was all a ruse, that Loysa was trying to protect her and her uncle. I have such a hard time keeping secrets when the answers can make people feel better. But Gellayna is a character, one I created. This is my mess.

"Thank you."

"How will this help you make a decision?" She asked, watching me stand. "Don't you want to know how we succeeded in severing our ties to the Empire? What sorts of goods we could trade? The benefits of an alliance...yes?"

"No, no. It's all right. I just...wanted to know, what motivated you. Why did you decide to become the leader of this rebellion."

"I didn't. Kyr did. I chose to marry him, aware that that decision came with inherent responsibilities. I was already a leader, among my people."

"And why... way back then..." I sat down again. "Why did you choose to be Taeverai?"

"Because," she said, "I believed that in the junction between past and present can the road into the future be found. As a Taeverai we study history, traditions of our people. Living here I learned about the Kordic versions of the same. in comparing them I see that perception, too, plays a role...but I think that was the answer I was looking for. I always wanted to help them. My people. We are without place, at least we were. The Empire didn't want us, no matter how long we lived here. So I wanted to find the way toward making us... accepted. Accepted, that is, without giving up our traditions," she gestured at her ornate skirts, "these are just trappings. But if perception is as important to constructing the world as I feel it is," She leaned forward, and my pen stilled for a minute, "then the symbol they represent is too important to shed. This declares me Rextian...maybe even a Rextian from Kordic...and so by donning the trappings I become Her. Me. My perception of myself becomes yours. Between us we begin to develop a definition, and create meaning and order of the world. No matter what, I have never wanted to shed the trappings. I will speak Kordic and my mother tongue. I will teach my daughter both. And she need not choose between one or the other. She can be both. She won't feel, like I did...like Kyrriki did...conflicted. One part is not more important than the other. They are both essential. And there is the answer I was looking for, the one that can earn my people acceptance, and for which they can fight. For which I can fight. As a leader, I can help others to reach these answers, and to implement whatever behaviors these answers make them feel the need to develop."

"Thank you," I breathed, I don't think she heard me...

"We don't need to cross the oceans to find a home that is no longer ours. Home is here. We've just needed to carve it for ourselves, and not let the Imperial powers dictate our existence on the edges of the Empire. This is the Kordic-Rextians asserting ourselves. The road to the future that I have chosen."

"Thank you, thank you," I said, tucking my paper under an arm. "Be well riani...."

"It's nothing." She bowed her head in gratitude and I fled before she directed any questions my way.

The Next Top Title Blogfest

2010-06-12T17:14:00.000-07:00

Thank you to the Slushpile Slut for hosting this next Blogfest! It's the Next Top Title Blogfest :D

I am really addicted to these blogfests lately, they certainly helping me stretch my writing and connect with others :D So here are my titles to various pieces. Let me know which is your favorite.

Silver Mask
Traitor Born
Memory Song
Wished Awry

Can't wait to read everyone else's submissions!

Plans and Ideas

2010-06-10T13:59:00.000-07:00

I have learned a few things recently. One, I kinda like posting some of my fiction here. Two, I'm working on commenting on other blogs. I am an invisible stalker on some blogs, follow others and check in randomly on all my faves. I love reading advice for writers. I love reading news pertaining to the industry. But li'l o' me?

While I got the urge to participate in the blogosphere, I think the "online platform" bit is something I've been learning. What should it be? How do I communicate myself in this manner?

One of my best friends (yes, I know you're reading this) raised a few good points earlier this week. I guess my struggles with the writing process have seemed...boring...to me. She let me know that as a reader/non-writer, the process fascinates her. I figured that as many of us are writers, we all know exactly how much blood we squeeze out over the keyboard. Then I remember my friends in my writers' group. Yeah, we all fight life and piece together our writing in what corners and times we can, but we do it differently. And sometimes, life changes. When it does (and this is what I'm learning the hard way at the moment) techniques that worked in the past for your younger self, might not work now. So, sometimes new things need to be attempted. It's very helpful to know how others face their own struggles and overcome them, because they might provide the keys to working out what you need to work out.

Yes. The "you" here is really a "me."

So I am going to work on posting exactly what's up in my writers' group. I'll post some of the background pieces that aren't going to make it into anything but can provide my readers with a taste of my style and an intro to my characters/world.

Hope everyone will like it!

Sad Today :(

2010-06-09T14:21:00.000-07:00

Wednesday is Farmers' Market day. I usually love to get out of the house, to taste fresh berries and pick fruits and veggies for the next week. Today, wasn't my favorite though.

After a few days of 90 degree weather (Fahrenheit, that is, & 20-something Celsius) it is overcast, windy and just a tad chilly. I know, weather is a bit inconsequential, yes? But it's made me grumpy. I am sensitive to the weather for some reason. I really want to move to the coast at some point, as at least there weather is roughly the same all year.

I am slow today. My plan is to work on cleaning the office. I just received my new speakers (Yay!) that should hook into my desktop or laptop. I hope that after a year living in this place I can actually get my desktop set up. While I use my laptop for most things...I always feel the desktop could still be useful.

Last year this time, I spent every hour possible in my office. This year, I live in the living room. I'm hoping that getting the office usable will help restore balance. Perhaps, if I feel that I have my own "space" again, I can focus on things that I need? On the other hand, I feel that just finding a day job would go a long way to helping me desire my own sanctuary. I always thought I'd write more if I had "more time to write" but being faced with too much time has made me realize that "balance" between life and writing--and what that very phrase means--has changed for me. It used to be school and writing, with "work" being the undesirable but necessary variable. Now, without school or work, I want work. I want something outside of my writing, which is not terribly demanding, but which grants me the feeling of achievement. Then, I think, I'll have the strength to face the knocks inevitable to the pursuit of writing.

But right now? I write more rarely than I'd expect. Every few days, something tumbles out. Or I try to focus on blog posts. The blogfests have certainly helped, sometimes they even make me forget the self-doubt for an hour or two :D

That said, I'm really much better at faking confidence face to face than in writing. I think...I just need to get the office straightened. If it's livable perhaps I'll succeed at setting my butt in the chair and getting more done.

There. I have a goal for next week :D

Dream Scene Blogfest!

2010-06-04T00:34:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Amalia for hosting this blog fest. My post this time around is something that isn't in something I've written, but it is in the time line. I'll see how much i like it in the morning in order to see if I put it in the story. Otherwise...it remains a scene! But it was fun, if short.

# # #

The garden was brighter than memory, and he could hear his sister's laughter. She was teasing Vynnek. He knew his sister well enough to hang back. He was doing the right thing, letting her marry. Perhaps it was a bit odd that it was his best friend and his sister. Politics did allow for this all the time. Strengthening ties and whatnot. So the ruse would work. and his sister would be happy. That was all that mattered. He couldn't fight smiling.

He rounded the corner and there--

They were dead. The somber soldiers shoveled dirt over their still forms. Then the soldiers paused. The little girl in the dirtied gray dress perched on the edge of her parents' grave. Her young face was impassive. He felt his own features settle in similar lines, and his niece became a mirror. He didn't recognize the face there. It was his, and not. His skin shone Silver. Silver like the magic he used to hide his true self. His real face.

He reached up a hand, meaning to strip it away, but rather than revealing himself, there was nothing. Emptiness. His fingers Scraped silver and found nothing in the mirror. His belly hardened. His breath caught in his throat.

His niece screamed.
Suddenly Kyr was awake and sitting in his bed. Loysa needed him.

Self-Publishing ... ?

2010-05-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

I have heard off and on from some individuals that, because it is so easy to self-publish, and because anybody can promote their work with Facebook and Twitter, the era of the large Publishing House is nearing it's end. Part of this post is due to an e-mail that was sent to me, a link to an article by Garrison Keillor. I grew up with A Prairie Home Companion. I folded clothes with my mother and laughed at Guy Noir. But just because young people (myself included) blog, write a ton, and invent knew textual slang to reduce the formality and impact of the written word when conversing online or through texting, does not mean we can all do this in a very business-minded way.

The difference between writing and publishing is in part mindset, and in part knowledge application. While writers interested in having their work published need to apprach their writing as a business, this means to apply a certain objectivity and practicality to the process of receiving critiques, sending out queries, manuscripts and the like. It means treating the others in the industry with respect. But it is my opinion that the writers advocating the future of publishing wherein only self-publishing exists, do not understand all that goes into a successful release.

Why do I have this perspective? My writers' group self-published last year and we intend to do it this year. I find that I have to explain many things multiple times to my friends and colleagues, because of the difference in mindset. When we gear up to self-publish, my brain switches from "writing mode" to "business mode." I start planning: How are we going to get the funds? How regularly do we need to hold fundraisers? Who can volunteer what time to what effort? How do I build awareness through social media and print media? Who will be the best editors? Who will judge what art goes on the cover? Who will do the cover design? Rejection letter, if there are stories that don't fit with our theme: "Folklore?" Or don't tackle the theme in a professional way? Copy editor? Editor? Who will decide what method of self-publishing will be most suited to this year's efforts and schedule? Who will arrange for the publication? Should we attempt e-books? What about deciding what budget we're working with? Press releases? What are the best regional blogs to contact? Will we have money for ads? Can someone design banners and badges to host on websites and blogs?

I did a lot of this by myself last year, with a bit of help. But to give the anthology a fair shake this time around, and generate the local buzz we're seeking to (in order to inspire a more pronounced literary community in our city) we need to work as a team. But the writers around me, for all their ;love of community, tend to be intensely independent workers. They don't work well with others when it comes to a business enterprise. They want a clear set of duties that they can take off into their own little corner and be certain they can get everything done. And they do, oftentimes, get things done. But that process can inspire stress that detracts from writing.

So when it comes to publishing, each book deserves a team's effort. But that team need not always be writers. Some of us can switch between the two, but I don't think it'd be fair to ask all writers to do so. More than that, I am strong believer in the fact that writers should not have to be independantly wealthy vto succeed, but a self-published author (if they are not surrounded by a team of volunteers)must hire their team. That's a lot of commissions to pay. That's a lot of ads to send around. Our marketing efforts, while in-house, are not going to be comparable to what a large publisher can muster. But part of the purpose is to learn what it takes to publish a book.

That said, I do think the era of Large Houses may well come to an end soon. But Publishers won't go away. I think the interdependence of real life/internet will lend itself better to small publishers. Small publishers don't have as much overhead, and may well be able to sell e-books more cheaply than do the big guys. But in order to bring in enough of a stream on cash to justify this, the small presses will have to change business models, too. The internet does open a new world of writing and I think readers and writers are still figuring out the best way this media can be used to compliment and promote fiction.

Net Neutrality and the Writer

2010-05-27T13:45:00.000-07:00

First: The musician for whom i wrote the treatment loved it :D My brother said he wasn't going to change much, and that I had a very solid story board going on. So, I am happy. Success! $200...well, it's something.

That said, some legal issue was brought to my attention and I think it's relevant because books are media/entertainment. With the increased popularity of e-books, video streaming, and all this talk about "enhanced e-books," what is being taken for granted? Computer bandwidth is, thank you. The ability for the consumer to access what is available. There is a threat to this system, however. The telecoms, lead by AT&T, Comcast, and Verizon are seeking to create an internet superhighway. they want us to pay for "premium internet" like we would "premium cable." This would limit (or prohibit) video streaming (Netflix, Hulu), voice-over IP (Skype, Vonnage and the like) and force consumers to use the applications sponsored or developed by your Internet Service Provider.

As E-books are downloadable content, and enhanced-e-books *may* contain audio and animation, I would imagine reducing connectivity to dial-up conditions could severely hinder consumer experience.

That said social-media, blogs, and other forms of communication are becoming integral to promotional efforts. Authors are doing Virtual Book tours, selling short-stories from their sites. Visual appeal is becoming synonymous with success, or at least essential in achieving it. So if our capacity to access or communicate online is limited, it can affect our careers negatively. Do some people promote themselves and their books without internet? Sure. But for those of us who are "wired in" and have been growing more wired as the technology progresses, it can prohibit us in reaching our audiences the best way we know how.

Just saying. I'm concerned. If you're interested and living in the US, here's a place to voice your opinion:

https://secure.freepress.net/site/Advocacy?cmd=display&page=UserAction&id=459&JServSessionIdr004=bgcvw5rgp7.app244b

A Little Project

2010-05-24T15:25:00.000-07:00

I'm excited to stretch my skills a bit with a new (if small) project. My younger brother, Brandon Moore, is trying to get into the music industry. He's not as interested in being a musician as he is in recording and making music videos. He is starting to get a few commissions and so slowly enter the field. That said, when this new R&B song was handed to him to create a video for he came to me to compose the "Treatment." (I hope I'm getting the jargon right :P )

I'm compiling the "story" that he will express visually. It feels more like creating a visual poem than a true story, because there isn't a real story arc. Instead, it's compiling a string of scenes that go together, convey a message that compliments the mood of the song. It's a little funny for me to think this way. I always feel that my descriptions are lacking in my stories. My first drafts are full of dialog and people doing things (plot, I love plot) but the description isn't penciled in until the revisions. Or at least, I feel it isn't fleshed out fully until that point.

So here's hoping that thinking in images will help fiction writing :D

Tagline/Logline Blogfest

2010-05-22T21:44:00.000-07:00

Hello, again!

I'm posting a little late because I had a full day. My writers' group held a rummage sale this morning, which went well. We are raising money to self-publish our second anthology of short stories. Our city kind of thinks itself a small town and so we're trying to generate activities, events, and such to create the more literary community we're all craving.

That said...thanks Bryan! My tagline/loglines for Silver Mask are below. Silver Mask is my current Manuscript (though in the midst of a revision). Let me know which works best! Thanks!

1)Kyr's family and title collide after his sister's murder, and suddenly he must champion a rebellion against the fragile Empire or let his niece die.

2)After Kyr's sister is murdered he must reconcile family and duty to protect his young niece, but this requires him to lead a rebellion against the fragile Empire.

3)When his sister is murdered, Kyr places the protection of his young niece's above all else, despite her life hinging on his ability to lead a rebellion against an already fragile empire.

For "Let's Talk"

2010-05-18T13:57:00.000-07:00

Here's my dialog heavy scene for the "Let's Talk" Blogfest. It's something that may or may not actually make it into a WIP... but I always wanted to see the interaction of these two characters. They met four years ago in another land, when Endoric went to assist the Lord Kallikenne against an invasion from an army from across the ocean. The enemy comes from Loysa's homeland and for her the battle is a continuation of a political disagreement started between her Uncle and Emperor a decade prior. Now, the enemy is a guerrilla organization living in the same land Endoric and Loysa (with friends) mostly saved. Mostly, because the enemy obviously isn't gone yet and now Endoric's home is threatened.

Loysa set her pack just inside the tent, then secured the hide flap. What now? She thought, surveying the camp. She had received a look from the sentry when she requested to join, but he hadn't denied the request.
He said, “Take it up with our leader.”
She wasn't anxious to see Endoric again. It had been a long time, and it had taken her even longer to figure out he wasn't dead. Not that it had been a bad thing for the survivors to adopt nicknames. Loysa knew from her own experience just how effective images were. Titles and names could create symbols. She hadn't seen through his, not until Tati and Ahgi left to settle in the town. Then she had had a reason to look again.
“What are you doing here?” Endoric demanded.
Loysa forced a smile as she turned around to face him. “Heard what you were up against, and thought you could use some help.”
Endoric stepped around her, opened the tent and grabbed her pack. “Not needed,” he said in a gruff tone.
He tossed the pack at her. She caught it against her chest. “Glad to see you too.”
“Loysa. I have a little sister to raise. I--”
“Here is no place for a child.” Loysa slung her pack over her shoulder. She didn't plan to actually leave, but it didn't hurt him to think she would do as asked. For now. “And I should know.”
“That is no excuse.”
“Excuse for what?” she asked.
“You—are not...who you were then.” Endoric stepped around her, with all the intent of leaving her right there. Outside the tent.
His men had started to take notice. The men sharpening swords moved their hands just a little slower. Men whittling arrow shafts from branches set their knives aside.
“So, it's going to be like that then?” Loysa didn't care who heard. She raised her voice. Even the whetting stones were set aside. None of the men looked up.
Endoric didn't take another step. His back was rigid. He didn't turn around. “Four years, Loysa. A lot has happened.”
“Tell me about it. I was in the middle, right from the start.”
“Not since Dermiy fell,” he said quietly. Still, his deep voice managed to cross the distance between them, and carried a biting edge, too.
“Don't be so sure, Endoric.”
“Right. You helped the Mieseon army.” He stalked toward her. His brow creased, just a bit. Enough for her to know he was angry. “The same ones who wouldn't help when the enemy crossed the border.”
“I wasn't headed there, not originally.” She dropped her pack at her feet. It landed with a dull thud, followed by a cloud of dust. “I was headed for Dermiy. But the town wasn't there by the time I got to the border.”
His shoulders relaxed. But his brow was still creased. He stood close now. She lifted her chin and refused to shy from his anger. He had every reason to be, as she saw it. She just had to wait for it to spend itself out.
“And you wound up--”
“With the Miesons, yes. But we gave the mutual enemy a good go.”
“And now you're here.”
“You're not dead. You left Dermiy. And what ties I had with the Mieseons just settled down for a less bloody life in a little town on the border.”
“Shouldn't be less bloody on the border,” he returned.
“Shouldn't be,” Loysa agreed, planting hands on her hips. “But you and I know that what we're fighting now is the same as back then. And they are anything but conventional.”
Even the brow began to relax. He still wasn't comfortable with her presence, but at least he wasn't angry. “Their strategy has changed.”
“It's easier to prevent your people and the Mieseons from uniting than it was to separate the groups in the north.”
“You still have insight?”
“Yep.”
“And once you're stuck with...what you're stuck with...”
“You're stuck with it.” He meant the Silver, the magic of her people, which allowed her to alter perceptions around her. She didn't use it often, it was quite taxing, but the enemy used it on the battlefield. She could counter it, and they were none the wiser. In her homeland across the oceans, even her family thought she was dead. Here, they couldn't determine how or who fought them at every turn. But Endoric's people, with their legendary ability to control metal and kinetic energy, were generally blamed. Loysa always liked that she could make her allies appear even more powerful than they actually were. Symbols, after all, were everything.
So there was one more lie she held. One more illusion she had to break. Would he trust her again? If she told him?
“Your sister is alive,” Loysa blurted.
He took a step back. He looked so pained for a moment, and then hope followed. Once, he'd had five sisters. Now, she didn't have to tell him which one she meant.
“Tati,” he said.
“Yes.”
“She's in the town you spoke of?”
“Yes.”
“And her friend?”
“Ahgi too.”
He stared a moment. Then he knelt, gathered her pack and returned it to the place in the tent. Loysa remained where she was. He'd have to sort through what all this meant. His sister had been with the Miesons. She had gone to Larnen to seek help, and in doing so had run off before the attack.
“Tell me--”
A horn sounded from the edge of the encampment, interrupting him. Endoric cursed.
Loysa grinned. That was what she remembered.
“Tell me everything,” he finished. “Later.”
“Later,” she agreed.

Flirt Scene

2010-05-16T21:40:00.000-07:00

Cora did her best not to look up from her meal when John entered. They weren't supposed to have met already. Father couldn't know. But she did listen as John traded pleasantries and was seated at the other end of the long table. He was introduced to the Lady Emmaline, their gracious host, and her daughters.
Meanwhile, Cora and her father were seated with other merchants, far from the Lady and her honored guests. That didn't mean appearances had no merit.
Cora dipped her spoon in the soup, raised broth to her lips, and tasted nothing. She listened for his voice, and caught a word or two. She kept her eyes down cast, and said nothing.
The courses passed her by. Eating felt like an act. She pretended to eat, when really she listened. She pretended to converse, only when spoken to. She would make her father proud that she tried. She did her best, then, to ignore John. She concentrated on eating, and the act grew painful.
Father spoke with Barry, who owned the shipyards to the east. It seemed they were haggling about something. Cora was glad it distracted her father. She no longer felt like pretending she enjoyed these outings.
A servant set a glass before her. She could not imagine eating another bite, so she stared at the pudding. She contemplated dessert as the others scraped their dishes clean. Laughter and conversation made it seem to Cora that everyone else was done. She still could not seem to lift her dessert spoon. Lady Emmaline stood. “My daughters and I would like to thank all our friends and guests for observing Vera's birthday. If you would now join us in dance...”
On top of this meal??? Cora thought.
She did not look up, not even as laughter seemed to grow further away. The others left for the ballroom. Cora decided the pudding matter. She stood, and about bumped into John.
“What are you doing here?” he said by way of greeting.
Cora reddened. “I was invited.”
“We're alone, no need to whisper. But we'll be expected in the ballroom soon.”
“I wasn't going to say anything,” she said. Cora was mildly annoyed that she could not seem to raise her voice above a hiss. “You didn't have to approach to me.”
“Hardly. What am I to know of it? I only met you that once--”
“But I knew who you were. I did nothing with the knowledge.”
“It wouldn't look good for either of us.”
“There is that.” Cora noticed how close John stood. It was precisely like the other day, when the guard had chased them. The ban on spell-casting had been city-wide. The guards had been out in force, and they knew precisely where to look.
Apparently, while John and Cora hadn't known of each other before that day, they had been doing precisely the same thing. Mind, they were at opposite sides of the city, and hadn't known of each other. The guards, by chance, had chased both to the center of the city.
“This is a far better place to meet someone than an alley.”
“Happenstance.”
John chuckled. He tucked her hand through his arm. “You are here to dance, yes?”
“According to my father, I'm here to seek a husband.”
“But not to you?” He led Cora to the ballroom.
She couldn't drag her feet if she wanted. She couldn't protest. She was trapped.
Together they passed through the archway into the ballroom. John took her hands and spun her onto the dance floor. He skirt spun about her ankles. She knew she would trip. She would stumble over her feet. She would fall on her face.
It was then she saw that everyone watched them.
“You aren't the only one leading two lives,” he said
“I don't want either,” she returned.
“Well, now we're in it together. You have my secret, and I yours. No going back.”
“Fine.” Cora forced a smile. Everyone would expect a merchant girl to be pleased to be dancing with a lord.
“At least, you provide an out for me,” he said.
Cora decided he was a better actor than she was an actress. His doting smile almost seemed real. He leaned down, so that his breath tickled her neck. “I'm going to call on you, Mistress Cora.”
She was ashamed at the sudden weakness that made her miss a step. She could feel his smile against her cheek.
“I take it you won't mind?”
“I'll mind,” she forced out. The words had more bite in her thoughts. They had fallen off her lips to gently.
When the music stopped, he kissed her hand. His lips lingered long enough to give her butterflies and inspire the beginning of evening chatter.

New Look

2010-05-13T12:25:00.000-07:00

I guess I wanted something new to look at.

On the technology front, news of the HTC Evo 4G permeates my house at the moment. I know phones don't seem to correspond with writing, but I'd argue that's all surface. More and more, people with smart phones do their reading on the phone. Blogging, tweeting, Facebook...all of these instant communication media are made easier by the smart phone. I know that my favorite time to be "in communication" is when I'm on the go. I know this doesn't work for drivers, but for me--I walk to the grocery store and that's a 15-20 minute walk. Good for a phone conversation or texting. The ability to scan blogs on my trips to the farmer's market and Trader Joe's is addictive as an idea. I can't stop thinking of the prospect.

The train ride to midtown/downtown will lose all monotony. In order to write, I feel that I have to keep up with the news. But other responsibilities keep me from spending the hours and hours online researching, catching up on my favorite blogs and the like. A phone! A phone! It will be the answer.

Wait a month, lets see if I've pinned hope in the right place.

What I'm Doing...

2010-04-28T13:02:00.000-07:00

I was reading this article on Writer's Digest and I thought it interesting. I have to admit that when I'm dragging with my writing, I am a complete social media addict. It is my ideal to be hooked in all the time. But, when I am busy, and when I get the hard bits smoothed out to the point that I am really writing, then I am in communication while on the go. I don't drive, so the time I spend walking to the grocery store, back from grocery store, to the farmer's market and back...to meet people or whatever is on my schedule...I spend the travel time calling, texting and so forth.

But this was part of the point for a 'New Writers Group' as I see it. The critique group is the heart as it focuses on the writing and offers connections to other writers. But stuff a bunch of people in a room, all from different critique groups, and they become a Writers' Group. A network of groups is stronger than a single group. The amount of knowledge, and the less work it requires to meet goals. Then there is the fact that those of us who cannot be full-time writers just yet have times when life intrudes so far that it squeezes writing-time into nothing. Other writers, plus a workshop environment without a class is certainly motivational.

Then there is the little fact that the nature of publishing is turning on its head right now. Yes, the traditional way still works. For now. And the agent-query process might not change too dramatically, but the information revolution has hit the industry. Advice for writers is changing and I think the nature of support in our local writing communities needs to change.

The women got it. And I think we'll see younger men holding blogs soon, and updating more frequently, though theirs might be shorter. Communication is a requirement of this new generation, and textual communication is sidling up to spoken communication in level of importance.

There are many male bloggers at sites like endgaget, but this "type" of site is not the same as the "personal blog." Do women still outnumber men in the more standard journalistic blogs? And women outnumber men in the Personal blogs (like this one, which if it were in a newspaper would likely be an op ed)? If so, is this a digital representation of report/ rapport speech?

Whatever the case, facilitating an online presence in some fashion is likely to be second nature to the next generation of writers. I will certainly believe that they will find ways to utilize this space in ways far different than we do now. I think doing so will be necessary to keep pace with whatever changes occur.

That said, their is a duality to our culture right now. It is something I've mentioned before and which I don't feel that the marketers are using to full effect. Publishers are focusing on digital space, as our writers. But there has to be a real-life component. There has to be a group that mirrors the web of intricate social connections that take place online in the real world. i know a lot of established authors find themselves enmeshed in such a network, but those of aspiring to something...well, we need it to get our feet on the first step up. Going to Conventions and Conferences is part of this, but it isn't the whole. Some of us don't live in vibrant literary cities, and we can't up and move to some place that is. We need to create community in our backyards. We need to become visible in our communities, as we are online. We need real-world visibility to create internet-visibility. This is what Sylvanopolis Writers' Society is doing. Slowly but firmly we are carving out a spot for ourselves in Sacramento.

SWS Today

2010-04-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

Today I made a Twitter account for SWS (Sylvanopolis Writers' Society) and worked on our fan page. I've been poking around for news and interesting stuff, and feeling like a lot is quite dry right now. I think it's because it's Monday.

I'm finding cool blogs and writers through groups on Facebook, but not too much in the way of news. I'm going to start poking around Twitter seeking to establish connections. I haven't been advertising this blog very well. I think sometimes I have to wade in the pool awhile before I decide to swim. But there's nothing like Leafkin to get me in the water! So, I'm working on it.

Join me for the ride.

Helpful Links

2010-04-23T12:23:00.000-07:00

Leafkin is coming. I am starting to write to-do lists and devise calendars to coordinate all the things that need doing. Then I get to ask people to achieve particular things, and then see if we can pull this all together. Talking to our members, the stories are coming together, and I can't wait to read them.

That said, I have helpful links, today.

Query help

agentquery.com

guide to literaryagents

There's a lot more where things came from! I'll share what I can find...when I can find it.

Reading and Stuff

2010-04-13T19:46:00.001-07:00

I finally am catching up on my Google Reader subscriptions. For awhile they were merely collecting while I focused on job hunting and writing. Now, I'm in training for a cafe position that may or may not pan out. The economy not only hit Sacramento, but has kept pounding it into the ground. My old college's career center evidences this fact as it keeps trying to convince me I need to move across the country (as is Monster) when they e-mail me details on really cool jobs in New York, Pennsylvania, or wherever.

Sorry, still have stuff to do in Sactown.

Technology is the big distraction in my house. My guy and I read a bazillion blog posts about the iPad when it came out(not really, but y'know...). Then there is his not-so-subtle love for the HTC Evo 4G... and provided that the TV is also the main PC monitor...the news is right there, in front of my face. Distracting, made even more so because it is so fascinating. I do half of my blogging sitting on the couch in the living room, anyway.

Then there was the release of Silver Borne by Patricia Briggs. I've been following her since I stumbled over her second book, over ten years ago. She was a new author back then, and a bit obscure because of that. When I discovered my friend Lucille also followed Briggs while we were both in High School, we became fast friends. We have bought each other Briggs' books for birthdays and such for the past few years now that adulthood has found us.

I'm still collecting Chinese myths for my new project, and am trying to develop the courage to call a few friends I haven't spoken too in a looonngg time because they might have helpful knowledge in this area. Ok, it's one person. But still, we're no longer terribly close and hanging out is just, well, awkward. I'll do it for the story though. I might need a translator and said person is fluent in Mandarin and fully Chinese-literate last I knew. That's kind of a rarity here in Sacramento, from what I've seen of my age group.

Lucille, actually, has been the biggest help, running things by her mother. But Lucille is in the last stretch of dental school, so I'm trying to avoid from calling her with inane Jing/Lara questions.

That said, the story is building in the back of my mind. I think on it a little, and there are more characters, firmer settings and structures. I have to write it soon, and I'm aching too, but I also don't want to ruin this one. I know that if I research just a bit more, plan just a bit more, before I get too attached to anything I'll have a far better product for the first write through. Then...I get to address the other story trying to rattle around in my head. After Lara has had her say.

Bad, Bad, Bad

2010-04-08T17:20:00.000-07:00

Sorry...I've been bad and not updated in a bit. I don't want to make excuses, so I'll just post an update about what's been going on...

I've been looking for work. I started out a year ago optimistic that my shiny BA would get me an office job, I'm now submitting resumes to cafe and thinking of returning to the Barista life. Anything would be good.

That said, I've also shifted gears completely with my writing. I have switched and caved, researching the City (San Fransisco) to place a story there. Yes, Urban fantasy. If the character were not so loud, I'd have ignored the whole concept. Lara will be a suitable culmination of my interest in Chinese and Celtic (Irish) cultures/mythology, Northern California history and geography.

Erica, Lily and I are discussing (very preliminary stages) opening a bookstore. Like with Lara I am in the research phase of this endeavor. So there is a long way to go, but it has been a bit consuming.

I have followed iPad news, and I will discuss that tomorrow :D

Until then!

Drea

Popular Fiction and Quality Fiction

2010-03-04T12:39:00.000-08:00

Fiction that writers and publishers shower praise on and those which soar up the bestseller lists are rarely the same. I do believe that there is value in both, but they are of completely different types. Taste and preference impact our attitudes and buying patterns. It is a mistake to think that there is a solid thing as "good writing." While some of us still love the classics (Austin, Shakespeare, Jules Verne, etc) we must admit that when we open such books we have to tell ourselves "well, this was written in a different era." We invent excuses "This is from a time when the attention span was longer," and seem to accept modern "limitations" as a difference of physical capability rather than preference.

Only, our brains look no different now than they did two hundred years ago. For that matter, since the appearance of the first homo sapien sapiens, there has been no change in capability.

Culture has changed: technology, communication, language and with them philosophy, behavior, and taste. It makes sense that in Old English it was proper to say 'aksed' and that a child in the modern American school system is chastised for the same pronunciation. "Proper language" shifts, just as all things do.

If that is the case, the definition of "good writing" is a recognition of the preferences of the era. They will evolve and shift in response to "groundbreaking" works respected in the writers' circles.

But best sellers aren't necessarily concerned with quality. Often it is the ability to master character which draws the populace to reading these books, but the reactions readers have to these characters further illustrate that it is all a matter of preference. For instance, I read a blog post discussing Twilight. The author of the post enjoyed the book and attacked those who dismissed it as bad writing. The one point of contention I have is with the the analysis of Bella. The blog author likes Bella's character because she believes it to be realistic. Obviously, plenty of readers agree. I personally, don't care if it is realistic. I don't read a book to get as pissed at the characters' whining as I did with my fellow teenagers in High School. When I was in high school, I read to be exposed to something more. Yes, a bit of escapism was essential then and it still is now. Which means that I want to identify with my characters, but I also want to like them. Who I like in real life and on the page amounts to my own personality and taste. When encountering characters we bring our own histories and baggage to play, our own perceptions of reality and our own preferences. So taste enters the picture.

Starting New

2010-03-03T15:08:00.000-08:00

New ideas do strike me. I have had a hard time focusing on them, but now the time comes. I do want to be published. I don't know how long Silver Mask or Traitor Born will take to get there. I have been playing with a bunch of new (no-Don-Yin) ideas. But depression due to joblessness has attacked my self-confidence and I haven't finished a draft of either.

So here is my new effort: off Don-Yin Stories--

Lara Lam (Urban fantasy)
Kymana (Sword and Sorcery)

The goal will be stand alone -manuscripts that could use a sequel but don't need them.

Let's see how I do!

A Character Day

2010-02-26T18:00:00.000-08:00

So I posted on SWS' Blog a day late today, and it was about characters derailing the storyline.

Now I want to discuss what I as a reader like in characters and how this might help in writing and revisions. I like struggle, internal to the character. A lot of writers like to approach this from a moralistic perspective and that can make for an exciting story. My favorites are battles against expectations (usually social) which force characters to confront and or develop a stronger sense of self. (Yes, I'm a sucker for self-discovery). This can also tread the moral ground when a character has to stick up for what he/she "knows" is right, but the society (of which they are a part) disagrees. Or, perhaps the achievement of the goal forces some moral flexibility or unavoidable actions which creates a crisis in the hero's self-image (they could not avoid some terrible immoral act). This creates the gray area, or the gray character.

But I don't always need or want this grayness. Sometimes I want the author's word choice to shape the characters just-so-much that I care. How do you do that, though?

In revisions of Novel One, I am stepping far closer to characters than I ever have. I am trying to to see the world through their eyes. I have everything so neatly drawn in my mind. I know so much. But what do the characters know? In an effort to bring the characters to the fore, the story lines change. I want the reader's interest in the characters to pull the story through, but I have never taken this tact before (exactly) because I was afraid that "nothing would happen." The path the characters might take me on might lead through an insane number of details that may or may not pull the reader into the story.

So is the answer as simple as keeping the characters morally ambiguous or otherwise in crisis, to keep them interesting?

On the Rules

2010-02-23T18:07:00.000-08:00

I'm starting to plunge into the latest rewrite of Silver Mask. I feel like I'm doing two things: returning to my original vision, but altering the current pace. The alterations the draft has undergone, partially due to the number of eyes I had go over the whole thing. Rather than attempting to identify my audience right off, I let varied critique groups tug at my confidence and fill me with rules i hadn't considered. My second-guessing and eagerness to produce a publishable manuscript left me open to their "rules" which led away from what "knew" was true.

Now, I am figuring out what to ignore, as well as establishing where I want to go with my work. Here is a sampling of my ideas:

What I was told--

1) Be wary of similes in Fantasy, your readers might take them literally.
2) Authors need to keep the passages focused on actions to keep readers' interest.
3) Readers' attention spans are short, so be careful of poetry, longer sentences, etc--they won't get subtlety.

What I now think of these things--

1) Similes represent symbolic thought. We don't think literally, and if well-crafted, the simile will not confuse the reader.

2) I subscribed to action for the longest time before realizing that it was my lack of description (which I was already aware of my issues with) that were holding the story back. I had liked the idea of having integrated action and description all the way through a book , start to end. I felt that this would hold the reader's attention better. I was wrong. I now believe that through description with interspersed action (still placing emphasis on setting the scene rather than on what exactly the character is doing)I will create a more solid visual base upon which the reader will extrapolate and attach meaning in following passages.

3) Shorter attention spans is an oversimplified manner of looking at a cultural shift. Yes, we listen to soundbites. Yes Twitter is insanely popular; and yes, action packed books sell well--but we are also an increasingly visual society. Did it ever occur to anyone that action-packed stories require a sort of picture-building that makes the visceral reality of a book take solid shape in the reader's mind? I do think this is part of the equation. An overlooked part. So for Epic fantasy, more descriptive works are preferred because the description allows the world and thus the characters in it, to attain the sort of life the reader is looking for.

Now I'm working on carefully building each scene and the process is teaching me where the real holes in the manuscript are. Yay for the learning experience.

Writerly Things

2010-02-18T14:05:00.000-08:00

So all of my research (read: blog reading) and my writing is meeting in the middle. I am starting short stories, which I will be seeking to publish after they go through the critique-group ringer. I lover my group, honest, they make me a better writer. But the aim of these short stories is going to be completely different than any I've attempted before. And yet--they could work really well for world building.

Idea: Trace my pseudo-SF world's history which begins with the death of Earth. In short story form, because I'm really a Fantasy writer, and I can only dwell on these depressing science based worlds for so long. But the future world is a bit of a parody of our own, and lets me play with pseudo-academic discourse. The whole thing is fashioned after an idea that the histories of my fantasy world are being translated (and there's an attempt at explaining them, too) by people from a scientific world. Ethnocentrism exudes from the Chontaulleans in their attempt to understand the Yinnians (my fantasy peoples). And at the heart of the debate is the fact that reality is as we see it. But that's big-picture. Small-picture is that as I piece it together and build up the Chontaullean society, there will be many situations for interesting dialogue.

And for the writer, it'll be fun to set up the ultra-rational and hierarchical Chontaull as a satire for the Western World. Take the "we know all" attitude and shove so many holes in it....

Not in a scientific sense, but in the relationships of the many societies I create to play with. I get my kicks watching the products of said societies interact. Yes. Dialogue. Plot. Cultural difference as a tension building device, where both people are right, and are only wrong because they try to force their reality on others and are ignorant of the fact that that is what they are doing. We are trapped in our own perspectives, and good and evil are constructs of these. No one is one or the other, but both. Good intentions lead down dangerous paths sometimes...and everything is about values, beliefs, experiences, etc.

That is why I write, I want to walk these edges and find the answer to human nature in fiction. Ambitious, I know, and improbable. But then, perhaps all I need is to uncover my own perspective to succeed.

A Bit of Market Analysis for E-Readers

2010-02-08T18:26:00.000-08:00

I'm not an iPad lover. I'm still looking for the ideal e-reader, but one requirement of my e-reader will be versatility. I, as a consumer in the 18-34 age range want an all in one device, or something close to it. I want an e-reader/laptop replacement. The iPad is not that.

So I got confused when a few blogs I've been following featured links to articles that praised the iPad. Was I completely wrong? Was the cafe hangout and discussion session I had with my friends poor selection of the consumer market? At a loss, I went to quantcast.com to see exactly who was reading these articles. What I discerned was that the greatest segment of the audiences of latimes.com and huffingtonpost.com are 35 to over 50 years of age. Generation X and Babyboomer readers, that's who their selling the iPad too.

Fair. Wiki Millenial or Gen Y and you can see that the 18-34 year olds are facing the greatest level of global unemployment in decades. So are we buying? Or are Gen X and Babyboomers expected to buy for us?

If so, they better make a stop by Gizmodo,where a greater number of our generation follow the gadget-news. There, the iPad is a joke. It doesn't meet the expectations of the up-and-coming generation. Sorry, Apple. We went for the iPhone and iPad, but you can't use the same tech over and over and keep our loyalty thus.

So the gamble the iPad (Apple) and the Publishers investing in it are making is based on the buying power of the Babyboomers. I love my parents, but such a marketing strategy is shortsighted.

I really would like to know how short-sighted marketing and production is going to help our economy. But -- I'm just speaking from a Millenial-consumer perspective here.

Amazon Versus MacMillan

2010-02-01T16:57:00.000-08:00

Two wrongs don't make a right. MacMillan wants to sell bestselling e-books for around $15. Amazon thinks this is outrageous and pulls all MacMillan titles from its store, from wish lists, and from Kindle. Authors--especially bestsellers, are outraged.

Fine. What is making this come to a head in such a dramatic manner? The iPad and Apple's deal with five of the Big Six. The publishers are starting to set prices. Why? The don't feel that $10 e-books are sustainable. They envision a future where brick and mortar stores and digital books exist together (In-Peace-and-Harmon-y, sings the voice in my head).

Now I don't own a Kindle. I own a total of 1 e-book (a textbook) that was required for a class and a digital version was all I could find in the rush born of the realization: OMG I need that book by the end of the week! But a full half of my book shopping -- print books, mind, not e-books-- has been conducted on Amazon. increasingly, the selection at the brick and mortar stores has been "not good enough," their breadth of selection in the genres I'm seeking just isn't enough to sustain my interest.

So here is where I am confused. The publishers want to sell the bestsellers at a higher price in order to make certain 1) they have the money to print the versatility and number of books we-the-readership is accustomed to, and 2) keep the brick and mortar stores afloat. But if the age-group under 34 is growing more comfortable with online buying, and our lives are bound to get more hectic as we slip more firmly into the 30's and then 40's...then online buying only stands to increase. From that perspective, the large-scale brick and mortar store --that squeezes as many subjects under a single roof as it can, but fills the sections sparsely by millenial standards-- is already on the decline. If they are proceeding to earn less of my money... and my shopping patterns are typical of my age group...then the publishers are acting too late. Far too late.

Not that Amazon's business tactics are in any way respectable, but they do know what the online-buying community wants. They give it to us. But, yes-- non-Amazon online stores would be very desirable to me. And yes-- the customers should've been given the opportunity to vote with their money.

I think what this may do to Amazon, and also MacMillan, will be interesting to watch.

A Winter Cold

2010-01-21T18:41:00.000-08:00

I haven't been online much this week. A head cold has interfered with my concentration. The most annoying occurrence this week I blogged about on the SWS blog. That was my inability to escape it all into a good book. Writer-mind got in the way and started analyzing the book I was attempting to enjoy.

I was contacted about a contest over at Amazon... and I might see if the friend who mentioned this could do a post.

I promise the next time i sign on here I'll be more creative!

Textual Context

2010-01-13T15:18:00.000-08:00

While reading Facebook comments on my wall, I noticed jokes about grammar. A friend teased my boyfriend about non-standard English used in a comment. A glance at Helium and the like definitely highglight the grammarian's concerns about language being "diluted" with the use of coloquialisms.

I guess that the most shocking bit about the whole thing is my epiphany: "I don't care."

Don't get me wrong, I do believe that it is important to have a good grasp of English. Anyone who writes had better know something. If you don't, well, you better be willing to put in the time to learn it!

That said, I think there are a few behavioral shifts we need to recognize before discussing the relevance of grammar to social networking sites:

1) Spoken language is not the same as written language.
2) Technology is affecting communication.
3) In spoken language, grammar and vocubulary usuage is dependent on context.
4) Texting and social networking are equivalent to conversing, sharing experience (like playing sharades at a party consisting of acquiantances)or even waving at
someone when walking down the street (poking, throwing sheep, etc.)

If social networking sites and texting are analogous to these casual forms of communication, the only part of it that makes standard grammar important is the fact that it is textually based. Writing has traditionally been the most formal of all forms communicating in English. The advent of writing has actually hindered natural language change, stalled it to such a degree that the alterations have been minimal in the past 500 years. (Yes, Shakespeare IS Early-Modern English.) All sources for proper grammar and vocabulary come from written works. We use dictionaries, thesarus, novels, and non-fiction texts to inform us of any topic we need. As we do so, we perpetuate standard English.

Bravo and Brava! Job well done, Reader!

But suddenly, context for written communication is broadening. As writing starting to take on the same contexts as spoken language, it makes sense that written grammar will become as context-dependent as spoken language. The lesson should be when to use it in which way. Standard English, in written form does not convey emotion the way that a voice would. In order to meet this need in casual textual conversing, the language changes. Grammar, which conveys its own loaded meanings, is changed to fit the needs of the society utilizing it.

Will this change formal documents? Of that I'm not certain. I certainly hope the alteration won't be extreme, but there is bound to be some reverberation. But then, language is the verbal (and textual) expression of culture, the communication of ideas and so forth. As those things change, and culture changes, so too does language.

From my standpoint, that is inevitable and nothing to balk at. I'm excited. it will be interesting to see what affects this has on formal writing...

Drawing Board

2010-01-11T11:46:00.000-08:00

Ok, not entirely going back to the drawing board. But I started Novel One with a dramatically detailed world. I thought I had everything planned to the enth degree. but there's nothing like work on a revision and fresh eyes to make me say to myself: "Woa! Hold up! What do I need here?"

I think I need more research. I need to figure out a few key things that will bring the background of the world to life, and I need to color the whole bit with magic. My process is going to be: read, read, read. I don't want my world to be a spot-on medieval world, so I think the technology and architecture and such that I wish to study will be a range of periods, pieced together on Don-Yin as needed.

First step will be to compose lists: first references and then of precise things I wish to impliment. Next will come the ways in which the cultural/socio-economic/magical components of the world influence the details. Then I back up and integrate the new and improved detail into the story.

Hopefully the logistics will be improved this way :(

I also have to world build for New Project... though that research will be geared toward mytth and history, more than technology and architecture ...

Well, hey... it's something!

New Year!

2010-01-07T13:14:00.000-08:00

I've been very indecisive about the face of this blog. I wobble between creative and professional. This topic came up at the New Year's party I attended. Now I have someone comfortable with templates dabbling with the format, so a brand new design will be unveiled soon. This time i promise to keep it!

The holidays brought other changes, too. SWS has a new website: sylvanopolis.com. And i am *going to* teach myself Dreamweaver. Currently I am using YouTube to refresh my InDesign know-how (Such that it is).

In the world of writing my progress is slow. But I'm working on time management in other areas, so as I progress in those areas I will be able to squeeze writing in as well. That's the goal! :D

New Year and New Goals

2009-12-30T16:55:00.000-08:00

2009 has been an interesting year. Stress, frustration, inspiration, victory and failure have each taken their turn this year, leaving me bound in confused knots. The trials, at least have taught me a few things, not merely about the world, but also about myself.

I've changed. Yeah, I know. Big surprise there. It happens to us all. The last time I delved into "me" issues I came up with a definite concept of self. Of course, at that time, I was a teenager. Reading and writing were part of the very essence of my self-made definition. But in the past decade, I have acquired more to "me." I do not need to rebel against society as strongly as I once did. Nor do I need to define myself as "creative" in order to separate from the "masses." Teendom is over.

What I have left is altering my writing. No, there is no stopping-- just changing.

I am a people person, now. I need time with people and by myself. Sounds pretty normal right? But I've determined that I need stability (financially at least) in order to write. Meaning: day job. At least, for now. Until my Guy gets a degree and job. But being without a day job has certainly messed with my head. I thought it'd be a test. The internal dialogue of self discovery kinda goes as follows:

Y'know: "Can I really write full time?"
Answer: "Not right now."
Q: "Why not?"
A: "See those two weeks that you did it?"
Q: "That was bliss! What's wrong with that?"
A: "You shut out the world, ran from other responsibilities. And the goal is balance. Balance. No tipping the seesaw to one extreme or the other."

And that's the kicker. Other responsibilities. Teens don't have to worry about them: Rent, keeping the house clean, keeping up with people important to me, writers' group stuff, relationship stuff, family stuff (which got complicated post teendom), ethnic confusion for awhile (loooonnngg story :( ) jobs, school, now post-college confusion ...

And in the mix, I have a new character haunting me. My research indicates that this story *could* be more marketable, but I drag my heels about it. I spent eight years as an undergrad because I'm stubborn. Now the maturing practrical side is trying to get me to take a break on the story I've been working on for six years and the younger, impetuous stobborn side is rooting heels in the ground (and I wear heels, all the time, so this means my figurative self is literally planted :P) and crying "No! Hell no! You make me change and I won't budge!"

Voila. That's what I call writer's block.

So! New goals: give in to practicality. (So Lara can stop glaring at me from the back of my mind) ... but! still make time for Silver Mask. Being slow, patient, and practical is A OK. Really. Gotta accept that.

Writing part-time is just fine. Trading off to make certain my life is how I want it in five to ten years... I waited eight/ten years to get to the point I'm at now ...and in the process I've learned the years are far shorter than I once assumed. With patience, I'll get there. There's nothing wrong with the small steps.

So that's my goal. Time management. Small steps. Accepting that the new me is not the person I thought I was, but to like this person anyway...accept that my needs have changed...and find the best way to meet them all.

I'm stubborn, so I will succeed. 2010 will be better.

Creating Community

2009-12-03T16:54:00.000-08:00

Creating a writing community does not seem like it should be a difficult thing. But here in Sacramento where coffee shops, law firms and medical offices dominate our down town, politics defines the mud through which we must wade. But rising from it, we define ourselves. Talking to artists and musicians I hear some of the same complaints I, as a writer, voice.

Musicians face issues of permitting. Where do you put on a show when half of the venues can no longer afford the permits required?

For critique groups, it's a matter of finding a place to meet that is quiet enough for concentration and discussion. I have met in groups at cafes all over the city. To no avail. In time, each group must move, due to expansion or noise or even the change of seasons, members moving, etc.

So SWS is trying to generate a network of critique groups in order to combat these issues. We hope to be centered around a Writers' Reference Library which will provide a physical focal point for meetings, and place people can go to learn about us.

Currently we have four successful groups going, and are looking to start more. The more people, the more knowledge, the better the whole.

Kindle on the PC?

2009-11-13T15:15:00.000-08:00

Ok. I think this is big news. Yes,tons of information on e-readers and the like has been floating about the various blogs and articles and such, but this beats all.

Going to work/school, my significant other packs: iPod touch, cell-phone, PSP, netbook, portable hard drive, and four key chain flash drives. Sometimes he takes his camera or camcorder, depending on plans (likely plans for after work/school day). That's a lot of electronics. The next phase we are waiting for is the consolidation of these various electronics into one system. There is a reason girls' fashion has come to amount to a bottom and a top (roughly), much unlike the to the Victorian era. Simplicity. We like simplicity. Our electronics need to become more like our clothes.

As much as I am fascinated by the e-book phenomenon, I would love not to buy yet-another-device that relies on wifi and whatnot when I already have my computer. If I have a laptop and desktop, why do I need specialty devices? Give me a tablet netbook of approximately the size of a hardback book that will run e-books, let me read my blogs, take notes with a stylus and by typing, play flash-based content- in short, condense all my needs into one device so I'm not reliant on twenty when the technology is there for one.

Amazon seems to have taken a step in the right direction. Now if there is e-book software I can install on the computer to imitate the ink-paper ratio I am accustomed to ... well, then you have me.

Quality and Audience in Writing

2009-10-20T14:38:00.000-07:00

First novels often take years. Sometimes decades. Mine is no different, but in the long years of revisions and critique groups one question always seems to come to the fore. Balance. How do we balance quality and audience? Where is the line? Are these two the same thing or not?

I tend to think that quality is something we writers judge ourselves and each other on. Quality writing, semantically, holds a different meaning for the readership as a whole. If this weren't the case all bestsellers would also win literary awards. In shaping the novel, initially, creativity reigns. Then comes revisions in which the focus is fine tuning. Making plot and characters and world all work in just the right way. Important emphasis is placed on cohesion, building (character and plot), and the sense of taking the reader for a ride. Entertainment and quality ... straying the line between the two is essential to success and yet a personal choice. This is not something with a quantity, there is no solid answer other writers can grant. Where and how to define both are up to each writer, between them and their work. Later, perhaps, editors and agents are involved in this decision, with their expertise lighting the way. But bottom line is the writer's choice in approaching their own work in a way that is at once meaningful and rewarding for him/herself. No one wants to sign their name on something their ashamed of (not to say what doesn't shame a person this year won't embarrass them in twenty years).

Just a few thoughts.

Attitude, Literary Fiction & Genre Fiction, Networking

2009-08-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

Writing is a solitary activity. Or so we would assume, as it generally involves a person planted in front of a screen or notepad typing/scrawling ideas on a page. But this is always only the first step in the writing process. Revisions are best done after the draft is seen by multiple eyes. The more solid a group of people you have to look at your work, the better. This doesn't mean you need a lot of people, but certainly a group of individuals you can trust.

I happen to believe that all writers deserve not only a group (either in the form of a critique group or a collection of independent readers/critique-rs) but a network of other writers from which to gain support. The wider network is for access to knowledge, encouragement and inspiration. Sometimes, I think this is half of the reason for conventions and conferences. While writers learn about the process at these events, we also gain acquaintances.

For this reason, networks like Facebook are very useful. Whenever I meet another writer -- even if their subject matter is not similar to mine -- I reach out to them. If people respond with snappy phrasing, they are electing to sever the potential networking opportunity. It is really easy to get into semantic debates online, and as writers I think we should be more flexible with our interpretations of words.

For instance, the definitions between "Literary and Genre Fiction." While the industry likes to pretend these are definite labels, their use indicates otherwise.

Literary Fiction has subgroups: Historical Fiction, Magical Realism, Fairytales, Psychological --mind, I don't spend a lot of time on these books as they don't tend to hold my interest, but I'm sure you can see that some of these are certainly pretending at a literariness because the author's agent/editor has seen the ability to market them so. I'll bet the individual writing "modern fairytale" owns a lot of the same non-fiction and mythology tests I have at home.

These are marketing terms. We have appropriated them both as writers and readers in order to define and describe our likes. It has become a sort of jargon, but jargon and semantics allow for the embedding of meaning that can divide groups. So we lump "genre fiction" together, despite its diversity and create a loaded term.

Loaded terms and semantics can lead writers of either end of the debate to think that their writing is more applicable to the world at large than is another. I would think that neither would be right. The difference is not content, but audience. Who do you speak too?

A lack of understanding in this regard allows people to sever themselves off from community. That might not be the intent, but it is the result of having a poor attitude.

All writers in your community are worthy of respect. Everyone is equally imaginative, but their manifestations differ. Our processes, like our minds, and interests are diverse. But and all forms of writing have literary value, at least as their most essential idea. The ability of the writer is to convince the audience of the impossible, experience the different, or gain a new perspective. Any of these goals rely on skill and communication, and can coexist.

So as wordsmiths we should be wary of the meanings of words and know that when we touch on loaded terms, our interpretation of an individual's intent and perspective are not necessarily accurate. We should be aware of the ability of a word to inspire an emotional reaction, and be conscious of that reaction. If possible, we should not take insult where insult may not be meant if semantic difference can be acknowledged.

Critique Groups

2009-08-05T14:21:00.000-07:00

I like people. Yes, I know that might be a rare sentiment, but it's true. So naturally I feel the need to work with others on projects and utilize group critiques to improve my writing, but I have been a part of good groups and not-so-wonderful groups. I don't think that there is a strict line dividing these two, but that what works for one individual might not for another. Personally, I want my critique group to be near enough my audience as to be able to give me feedback close enough to the responses I could expect from readers. Other groups I've been in have focused on what editors want and what is "good and bad" as defined by the writer pursuing the art of writing for the art's sake.

There are positives and negatives in each of these options, and I think the true value of each is only realized by the individual to whom the structure is best suited. Likewise is every group affected by the personalities composing it, the dynamic can develop either a creative or destructive atmosphere for its members based on their relationship. I am still working out how this happens, as I have had one group that worked for most of its members but seriously discouraged me and am currently a part of a group that grants me just what I need at some points and major discouragement during other sessions.

Small is a necessity for a serious critique group. That is the first and only ingredient I can identify. Everything else I consider after that point is ambiguous and subjective. There is a balance between just enough and too much negative feedback, and between positive and negative critiques. How a group manages to maintain this balance seems based on the dynamic, however, rather than the rules governing the group.

My most successful critique group consisted of myself (naturally) and three others. Melissa is the Grammar-nut and at the group's inception did not hesitate to dress down any and every story presented to her. Erica, on the other hand, told us what we did well. Roy, who still thinks he can't critique, tells us where to go into more detail, whether something was confusing, rushed or all-out info dump. I watch out for structure. I'm a big-picture gal, and want well-developed worlds, and so am always asking for more in that regard. All together, the group has just the right balance of skill-sets to be of great help to its members.

Currently the group has gotten larger, and we have been trying to create new groups. There is a workshop group and a critique group. The workshop can be composed of however many members need it, and is in no way worrisome. Creating a self-sustaining and rewarding critique group for these new members is much more challenging.

I think some people might wonder why I'm trying to help others set up a critique group, and the answer is that I am trying to establish a network of critique groups. My city has little support for writing, or the arts, and so I have been trying to create that base of support. It is essential that this new critique group can sustain and reward its members. I am currently obsessing with how to make this work. What dynamic works for the individuals I am considering?

Next step, of course, is talking to them. See? I like people. How crazy is that?